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LONDON POEMS 



ALEXANDER STRAHAN, PUBLISHER 
London ....... -. . . . 148 Strand 

New York 139 Grand Street 



LONDON POEMS 



By ROBERT BUCHANAN 

AUTHOR OF 
<' IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INVERBURN," " UNDERTONES," ETC 





ALEXANDER STRAHAN, PUBLISHER 

LONDON AND NEW YORK 

1867 



.is- 



TO 

WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON. 

''Nostrorum sermonum candid e judex. . . . 
Curantem quidquid dignum sapiente bonoque est. 
Non Tu corpus eras sine pectore." 

Horace, Epp. r. 4. 



My dear Dixon, — This book is inscribed to you ; and lest 
you should ask wherefore, I will refresh your memory. Seven 
years ago, when I was an ambitious lad in Scotland, and when 
the north-easter was blowing coldly on me, you sent me such 
good words as cheered and warmed me. You were one of two 
(the gentle, true, and far-seeing George Henry Lewes was the 
other) who first believed that I was fitted for noble efforts. 
Since then you have known me better, and. abode by your first 
hope. Nor have you failed to exhibit the virtue, not possessed 
by one writer in a hundred, of daring to express publicly your 
confidence in an unacknowledged author. 

One word concerning the present volume. "London Poems" 
are the last of what I may term my "poems of probation," — 
wherein I have fairly hinted what I am trying to assimilate in 
life and thought. However much my method may be confounded 
with the methods of other writers, I am sure to get quartered (to 
my cost, perhaps) on my own merits by and by. 

Accept these poems, — given under a genuine impulse, and not 
merely in compliment. Of your fine qualities I will say nothing. 
Your candour may offend knaves and your reticence mislead 
fools ; but be happy in your goodness, and in the loving homage 
of those dearest to you. — And believe me, 

Always your Friend, 

ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

Bexhill, Sussex, June 1866. 



CONTENTS. 



LONDON POEMS— page 

Bexhill, 1866, ....... 3 

The Little Milliner, . . . . . .11 

Liz, . . 27 

The Starling, .... ... 45 

Jane Lew son, • 55 

Langley Lane, . . . . . . .91 

Edward Crowhurst; or, "A New Poet," . 97 

Artist and Model, 137 

Nell, 149 

Attorney Sneak, 161 

Barbara Gray, 1 75 

The Linnet, ........ 181 

London, 1864, . . . . . . .187 

MISCELLANEOUS— 

The Death of Roland, 197 

The Scaith o' Bartle, . . . . . .216 

The Glamour, 247 

The Gift of Eos, 256 

Glossary of a Few Scotticisms Used in "The 

Scaith o' Bartle," 271 



LONDON POEMS. 



©trip uur Inueut fa's &of(e 5Kenf$entc5en! 
(Sin jeter UW$ f tricot ttielett tji'g Befcmut, 
Unb iuc iljt'S pacft, ba tji'6 iutereffauh 

Faust — Vorspiel auf dem Theater* 



BEXHILL, 1866. 

]\JOW, when the catkins of the hazel swing 
Wither'd above the leafy nook wherein 
The chaffinch breasts her five blue speckled eggs, 
All round the thorn grows fragrant, white with may, 
And underneath the fresh wild hyacinth-bed 
Shimmers like water in the whispering wind ; 
Now, on this sweet still gloaming of the spring, 
Within my cottage by the sea, I sit, 
Thinking of yonder city where I dwelt, 
Wherein I sicken'd, and whereof I learn'd 
So much that dwells like music on my brain. 
A melancholy happiness is mine ! 
My thoughts, like blossoms of the muschatel. 
Smell sweetest in the gloaming ; and I feel 
Visions and vanishings of other years, — 



LONDON POEMS. 



Faint as the scent of distant clover meadows — 
Sweet, sweet, though they awaken serious cares — 
Beautiful, beautiful, though they make me weep. 

The good days dead, the well-beloved gone 
Before me, lonely I abode amid 
The buying, and the selling, and the strife 
Of little natures ; yet there still remain' d 
Something to thank the Lord for. — I could live ! 
On winter nights, when wind and snow were out, 
Afford a pleasant fire to keep me warm ; 
And while I sat, with homeward-looking eyes, 
And while I heard the humming of the town, 
I fancied 'twas the sound I used to hear 
In Scotland, when I dwelt beside the sea. 
I knew not how it was, or why it was, 
I only heard a sea-sound, and was sad. 
It haunted me and pain'd me, and it made 
That little life of penmanship a dream ! 
And yet it served my soul for company, 
When the dark city gather'd on my brain, 
And from the solitude came never a voice 
To bring the good days back, and show my heart 
It was not quite a solitary thing. 



BEXHILL, 1866. 



The purifying trouble grew and grew, 
Till silentness was more than I could bear. 
Brought by the ocean murmur from afar, 
Came silent phantoms of the misty hills 
Which I had known and loved in other days ; 
And, ah ! from time to time, the hum of life 
Around me, the strange faces of the streets, 
Mingling with those thin phantoms of the hills, 
And with that ocean-murmur, made a cloud 
That changed around my life with shades and 

sounds, 
And, melting often in the light of day, 
Left on my brow dews of aspiring dream. 
And then I sang of Scottish dales and dells, 
And human shapes that lived and moved therein, 
Made solemn in the shadow of the hills. 
Thereto, not seldom, did I seek to make 
The busy life of London musical, 
And phrase in modern song the troubled lives 
Of dwellers in the sunless lanes and streets. 
Yet ever I was haunted from afar, 
, While singing ; and the presence of the mountains 
Was on me ; and the murmur of the sea 
Deepen' d my mood ; while everywhere I saw, 



LONDON POEMS. 



Flowing beneath the blackness of the streets, 
The current of sublimer, sweeter life, 
Which is the source of human smiles and tears, 
And, melodised, becomes the strength of song. 

Darkling, I longed for utterance, whereby- 
Poor people might be holpen, gladden'd, cheer' d ; 
Brightning at times, I sang for singing's sake. 
The wild wind of ambition grew subdued, 
And left the changeful current of my soul 
Crystal and pure and clear, to glass like water 
The sad and beautiful of human life ; 
And, even in the unsung city's streets, 
Seem'd quiet wonders meet for serious song, 
Truth hard to phrase and render musical. 
For ah ! the weariness and weight of tears, 
The crying out to God, the wish for slumber, 
They lay so deep, so deep ! God heard them all ; 
He set them unto music of His own ; 
But easier far the task to sing of kings, 
Or weave weird ballads where the moon-dew glistens, 
Than body forth this life in beauteous sound. 
The crowd had voices, but each living man 
Within the crowd seem'd silence-smit and hard : 



BEXHILL, 1866. 



They only heard the murmur of the town, 

They only felt -the dimness in their eyes, 

And now and then turn'd startled, when they saw 

Some weary one fling up his arms and drop, 

Clay-cold, among them, — and they scarcely grieved, 

But hush'd their hearts a time, and hurried on. 

'Twas comfort deep as tears to sit alone, 
Haunted by shadows from afar away, 
And try to utter forth, in tuneful speech, 
What lay so musically on my heart. ' 
But, though it sweeten'd life, it seem'd in vain. 
For while I sang, much that was clear before — 
The souls of men and women in the streets, 
The sounding sea, the presence of the hills, 
And all the weariness, and all the fret, 
And all the dim, strange pain for what had fled — 
Turn'd into mist, mingled before mine eyes, 
Roll'd up like wreaths of smoke to heaven, and 

died: 
The pen dropt from my hand, mine eyes grew 

dim, 
And the great roar was in mine ears again, 
And I was all alone in London streets. 



LONDON POEMS. 



Hither to pastoral solitude I came, 
Happy to breathe again serener air 
And feel a purer sunshine ; and the woods 
And meadows were to mean ecstasy, 
The singing birds a glory, and the trees 
A green perpetual feast to fill the eye 
And shimmer in upon the soul ; but chief, 
There came the murmur of the waters, sounds 
Of sunny tides that wash on silver sands, 
Or cries of waves that anguish'd and went white 
Under the eyes of lightnings. 'Twas a bliss 
Beyond the bliss of dreaming, yet in time 
It grew familiar as my mother's face ; 
And when the wonder and the ecstasy 
Had mingled with the beatings of my heart, 
The terrible City loom'd from far away 
And gather'd on me cloudily, dropping dews, 
Even as those phantoms of departed days 
Had haunted me in London streets and lanes. 
Wherefore in brighter mood I sought again 
To make the life of London musical, 
And sought the mirror of my soul for shapes 
That linger'd, faces bright or agonised, 
Yet ever taking something beautiful 



BEXHILL, 1866. 



From glamour of green branches, and of clouds 
That glided piloted by golden airs. 

And if I list to sing of sad things oft, 
It is that sad things in this life of breath 
Are truest, sweetest, deepest. Tears bring forth 
The richness of our natures, as the rain 
Sweetens the smelling brier; and I, thank God, 
Have anguish'd here in no ignoble tears — 
Tears for the pale friend with the singing lips, 
Tears for the father with the gentle eyes 
(My dearest up in heaven next to God) 
Who loved me like a woman. I have wrought 
No girlond of the rose and passion-flower, 
Grown in a careful garden in the sun ; 
Eut I have gathered samphire dizzily, 
Close to the hollow roaring of a Sea. 



Far away in the dark 

Breaketh that living Sea, 
Wave upon wave ; and hark ! 

These voices are blown to me ; 
For a great wind rises and blows, 

Wafting the sea-sound near, 
But it fitfully comes and goes, 

And I cannot always hear ; 
Green boughs are flashing around, 

And the flowers at my feet are fair, 
•And the wind that bringeth the ocean-sound 

Grows sweet with the countrv air. 



I. 

THE LITTLE MILLINER: 

K %z)yt Poem. 

With fairy foot and fearless gaze 
She passes pure through evil ways ; 
She wanders in the sinful town, 

And loves to hear the deep sea-music 
Of people passing up and down. 

Fear nor shame nor sin hath she, 
But, like a sea-bird on the Sea, 
Floats hither, thither, day and night : 

The great black waters cannot harm her, 
Because she is so weak and light. 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 

TV/T Y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, 

A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, 
A sweet face pouting in a white straw bonnet, 
A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; 
And all her finery to charm beholders 
Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders, 
The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow, 
And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. 
But gladly in the busy town goes she, 
Summer and winter, fearing nob o die ; 
She pats the pavement with her fairy feet, 
With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street; 
And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, 
A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. 



14 LONDON POEMS. 



We lodged in the same house a year ago : 
She on the topmost floor, I just below, — 
She, a poor milliner, content and wise, 
I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; 
And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love 
The little angel on the floor above. 
For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirr'd, 
Her chamber door would open, and I heard, — 
And listened, blushing, to her coming down, 
And palpitated with her rustling gown, 
And tingled while her foot went downward slow, 
Creak' d like a cricket, pass'd, and died below ; 
Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, 
I saw the pretty shining face go by, 
Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet, — 
A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. 
All winter long, witless who peep'd the while, 
She sweeten'd the chill mornings with her smile : 
When the soft snow was falling dimly white, 
Shining among it with a child's delight, 
Bright as a rose, though nipping winds might blow, 
And leaving fairy footprints in the snow ! 

And every night, when in from work she tript, 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 15 

Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt, 

That I might hear upon the narrow stair 

Her low " Good evening," as she pass'd me there. 

And when her door was closed, below sat I, 

And hearkened stilly as she stirr'd on high, — 

Watch'd the red firelight shadows in the room, 

Fashion'd her face before me in the gloom, 

And heard her close the window, lock the door, 

Moving about more lightly than before, 

And thought, "She is undressing now !' and oh ! 

My cheeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! 

And I made pictures of her, — standing bright 

Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white, 

Upbinding in a knot her yellow hair, 

Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; 

Till, last, the floor creak'd softly overhead, 

'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed, — 

And all was hush'd. Yet still I hearken'd on, 

Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; 

And saw her slumbering with lips apart, 

One little hand upon her little heart, 

The other pillowing a face that smiled 

In slumber like the slumber of a child, 

The bright hair shining round the small white ear, 



l6 LONDON POEMS. 



The soft breath stealing visible and clear, 

And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam 

Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. 

How free she wander'd in the wicked place, 
Protected only by her gentle face ! 
She saw bad things — how could she choose but 

see? — 
She heard of wantonness and misery ; 
The city closed around her night and day, 
But lightly, happily, she went her way. 
Nothing of evil that she saw or heard 
Could touch a heart so innocently stirr'd, — 
By simple hopes that cheer'd it through the 

storm, 
And little flutterings that kept it warm. 
No power had she to reason out her needs, 
To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds j 
But she was good and pure amid the strife, 
By virtue of the joy that was her life. 
Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall, 
Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall 9 
She floated, pure as innocent could be, 
Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea. 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 17 

Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, 
Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow. 
While the clouds gather, and the w r aters roar, 
And mighty ships are broken on the shore. 

And London streets, with all their noise and 
stir, 
Had many a pleasant sight to pleasure her. 
There were the shops, w T here wonders ever new, 
As in a garden, changed the whole year through. 
Oft w r ould she stand and watch with laughter sweet 
The Punch and Judy in the quiet street ; 
Or look and listen while soft minuets 
Play'd the street organ with the marionettes ; 
Or join the motley group of merry folks 
Round the street huckster with his wares and jokes, 
Fearless and glad, she join'd the crowd that flows 
Along the streets at festivals and shows. 
In summer time, she loved the parks and squares, 
Where fine folk drive their carriages and pairs ; 
In winter time her blood was in a glow, 
At the white coming of the pleasant snow ; 
And in the stormy nights, when dark rain pours, 
She found it pleasant, too, to sit indoors, 



1 8 LONDON POEMS. 



And sing and sew, and listen to the gales, 
Or read the penny journal with the tales. 

Once in the year, at merry Christmas time, 
She saw the glories of a pantomime, 
Feasted and wonder'd, laugh'd and clapp'd aloud, 
Up In the gallery among the crowd, 
Gathering dreams of fairyland and fun 
To cheer her till another year was done; 
More happy, and more near to heaven, so, 
Than many a lady in the tiers below. 

And just because her heart was pure and glad, 
She lack'd the pride that finer ladies had : 
She had no scorn for those who lived amiss, — 
The weary women with their painted bliss; 
It never struck her little brain, be sure, 
She was so very much more fine and pure. 
Softly she pass'd them in the public places, 
Marvelling at their fearful childish faces ; 
She shelter' d near them, when a shower would fall, 
And felt a little frighten'd, that was all, 
And watch'd them, noting as they stood close by 
Their dress and fine things with a woman's eye, 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 19 

And spake a gentle word if spoken to, — 
iVnd wonder' d if their mothers lived and knew. 

Her look, her voice, her step, had witchery 
And sweetness that were all in all to me ! 
We both were friendless, yet, in fear and doubt, 
I sought in vain for courage to speak out. 
Wilder my heart could ne'er have throbb'd before her, 
My thoughts have stoop'd more humbly to adore her, 
My love more timid and more still have grown, 
Had Polly been a queen upon a throne. 
All I could do was wish and dream and sigh, 
Blush to the ears whene'er she pass'd me by, 
Still comforted, although she did not love me, 
Because her little room was just above me. 

'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow 
Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, 
And girls were selling violets in the town, 
That suddenly a fever struck me down. 
The world was changed, the sense of life was pain'd, 
And nothing but a shadow-land remain'd ; 
Death came in a dark mist and looked at me, 
I felt his breathing, though I could not see, 



20 LONDON POEMS. 



But heavily I lay and did not stir, 

And had strange images and dreams of her. 

Then came a vacancy : with feeble breath, 

I shiver'd under the cold touch of Death, 

And swoon'd among strange visions of the dead, 

When a voice call'd from Heaven, and he fled ; 

And suddenly I waken'd, as it seem'd, 

From a deep sleep wherein I had not dream' d. 

And it was night, and I could see and hear, 
And I was in the room I held so dear, 
And unaware, stretch'd out upon my bed, 
I hearken'd for a footstep overhead. 

But all was hush'd. I look'd around the room, 
And slowly made out shapes amid the glocm. 
The wall was redden'd by a rosy light, 
A faint fire flicker'd, and I knew 'twas night. 
Because below there was a sound of feet 
Dying away along the quiet street,— 
When, turning my pale face and sighing low, 
I saw a vision in the quiet glow : 
A little figure, in a cotton gown, 
Looking upon the fire and stooping clown, 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 21 

Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed 
Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side, — 
Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see, 
Her little hands clasp'd tight around her knee, 
The firelight gleaming on her golden head, 
And tinting her white neck to rosy red, 
Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure, 
With childish fear and yearning half demure. 

Oh, sweet, sweet dream ! I thought, and strain'd 
mine eyes, 
Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs. 

Softly she stoop'd, her dear face sweetly fair, 
And sweeter since a light like love was there, 
Brightening, watching, more and more elate, 
As the nuts glow'd together in the grate, 
Crackling with little jets of fiery light, 
Till side by side they turn'd to ashes white, — 
Then up she leapt, her face cast off its fear 
For rapture that itself was radiance clear, 
And would have clapp'd her little hands in glee. 
But, pausing, bit her lips and peep'd at me, 
And met the face that yearn'd on her so whitely, 



LONDON POEMS. 



And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, 
While, raised on elbow, as she turn'd to flee, 
"Polly /" I cried, — and grew as red as she ! 

It was no dream ! — for soon my thoughts were clear, 
And she could tell me all, and I could hear : 
How in my sickness friendless I had lain, 
How the hard people pitied not my pain ; 
How, in despite of what bad people said, 
She left her labours, stopp'd beside my bed, 
And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; 
How, in the end, the danger pass'd me by ; 
How she had sought to steal away before 
The sickness pass'd, and I was strong once more. 
By fits she told the story in mine ear, 
And troubled all the telling with a fear 
Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid, 
Lest I should think her bold in what she did ; 
But, lying on my bed, I dared to say, 
How I had watch'd and loved her many a day, 
How dear she was to me, and dearer still 
For that strange kindness done while I was ill, 
And how I could but think that Heaven above 
Had done it all to bind our lives in love. 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 23 

And Polly cried, turning her face away, 

And seem'd afraid, and answered " yea" nor "nay;" 

Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs, 

Look'd on my pale thin face and earnest eyes, 

And seem'd in act to fling her arms about 

My neck, then, blushing, paused, in' fluttering 

doubt, 
Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing, — 
That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing ! 

Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die 
How happily the dreamy days went by, 
While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats, 
Heark'ning the pleasant murmur from the streets, 
And Polly by me like a sunny beam, 
And life all changed, and love a drowsy dream ! 
'Twas happiness enough to lie and see 
The little golden head bent droopingly 
Over its sewing, while the still time flew, 
And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! 
And then, when I was nearly well and strong, 
And she went back to labour all day long, 
How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes, 
And hear the distant murmurs and the cries, 



24 LONDON POEMS. 



And think how pure she was from pain and sin, — 

And how the summer days were coming in ! 

Then, as the sunset faded from the room, 

To listen for her footstep in the gloom, 

To pant as it came stealing up the stair, 

To feel my whole life brighten unaware 

When the soft tap came to the door, and when 

The door was open'd for her smile again ! 

Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night, 

She sat beside me in the quiet light, 

And happy things were said and kisses won, 

And serious gladness found its vent in fun. 

Sometimes I would draw close her shining head, 

And pour her bright hair out upon the bed, 

And she would laugh, and blush, and try to scold, 

While " Here," I cried, " I count my wealth in gold ! " 

Sometimes we play'd at cards, and thrill'd with bliss, 

On trumping one another with a kiss. 

And oft our thoughts grew sober and found themes 

Of wondrous depth in marriage plans and schemes \ 

And she with pretty calculating lips 

Sat by me, cautious to the finger-tips, 

Till, all our calculations grown a bore, 

We summ'd them up in kisses as before ! 



THE LITTLE MILLINER. 2$ 

Once, like a little sinner for transgression, 
She blush'd upon my breast, and made confession : 
How, when that night I woke and look'd around, 
I found her busy with a charm profound, — 
One chestnut was herself, my girl confess'd, 
The other was the person she loved best, 
And if they burn'd together side by side, 
He loved her, and she would become his bride ; 
And burn indeed they did, to her delight, — 
And had the pretty charm not proven right 1 
Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said, 
While her confessor, too, grew rosy red, — 
And close together press'd two blissful faces, 
As I absolved the sinner, with embraces. 

And here is winter come again, winds blow, 
The houses and the streets are white with snow; 
And in the long and pleasant eventide, 
Why, what is Polly making at my side ? 
What but a silk-gown, beautiful and grand, 
We bought together lately in the Strand ! 
What but a dress to go to church in soon, 
And wear right queenly 'neath a honey-moon ! 
And who shall match her with her new straw bonnet, 



26 LONDON POEMS. 



Her tiny foot and little boot upon it, 
Embroider'd petticoat and silk-gown new, 
And shawl she wears as few fine ladies do ? 
And she will keep, to charm away all ill, 
The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; 
And we will turn, come fair or cloudy weather, 
To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! 



II. 

LIZ. 



The crimson light of sunset falls 

Through the gray glamour of the murmuring rain, 
And creeping o'er the housetops crawls 

Through the black smoke upon the broken pane, 
Steals to the straw on which she lies, 

And tints her thin black hair and hollow cheeks, 
Her sun-tann'd neck, her glistening eyes, — 

While faintly, sadly, fitfully she speaks. 
But when it is no longer light, 

The pale girl smiles, with only One to mark, 
And dies upon the breast of Night, 

Like trodden snowdrift melting in the dark. 



LIZ. 



i. 



TJ EY, rain, rain, rain ! 

It patters down the glass, and on the sill, 

And splashes in the pools along the lane- 
Then gives a kind of shiver, and is still : 
One likes to hear it, though, when one is ill. 

Rain, rain, rain, rain ! 

Hey, how it pours and pours ! 

Rain, rain, rain, rain ! 

A dismal day for poor girls out-o'-doors ! 

ii. 

Ah, don't ! That sort of comfort makes me cry. 
And, Parson, since I 'm bad, I want to die. 



30 LONDON POEMS. 



The roaring of the street, 
The tramp of feet, 
The sobbing of the rain, 
Bring nought but pain ; 
They 're gone into the aching of my brain ; 
And whether it be light, 
Or dark dead night, 
Wherever I may be, I hear them plain ! 
I 'm lost and weak, and can no longer bear 
To wander, like a shadow, here and there — 
As useless as a stone— tired out — and sick ! 
So that they put me down to slumber quick, 
It does not matter where. 
No one will miss me ; all will hurry by, 
And never cast a thought on one so low; 
Fine gentlemen miss ladies when they go, 
But folk care nought for such a thing as I. 

in. 

'Tis bad, I know, to talk like that — too bad ! 

Joe, though he 's often hard, is strong and true — 
[Ah, Joe meant well] — and there's the baby, tool- 
But I 'm so tired and sad. 
I 'm glad it was a boy, sir, very glad. 



3i 



A man can fight along, can say his say, 

Is not look'd down upon, holds up his head, 
And, at a push, can always earn his bread : 
Men have the best of it, in many a way. 
But ah ! 'tis hard indeed for girls to keep 
Decent and honest, tramping in the town, — 
Their best but bad — made light of — beaten down- 
Wearying ever, wearying for sleep. 
If they grow hard, go wrong, from bad to badder, 
Why, Parson, dear, they 're happier being blind : 
They get no thanks for being good and kind — 
The better that they are, they feel the sadder ! 



IV. 

Nineteen ! nineteen ! 

Only nineteen, and yet so old, so old ; — 
I feel like fifty, Parson — I have been 

So wicked, I suppose, and life 's so cold ! 
Ah, cruel are the wind, and rain, and snow, 

And I Ve been out for years among them all : 

I scarce remember being weak and small 
Like baby there — it was so long ago. 
It does not seem that I was born. I woke, 



32 LONDON POEMS. 



One day, long, long ago, in a dark room, 
And saw the housetops round me in the smoke, 

And, leaning out, look'd down into the gloom, 
Saw deep black pits, blank walls, and broken panes, 

And eyes, behind the panes, that flashed at me, 
And heard an awful roaring, from the lanes, 

Of folk I could not see ; 
Then, while I look'd and listen'd in a dream, 

I turn'd my eyes upon the housetops gray, 
And saw, between the smoky roofs, a gleam 

Of silver water, winding far away. 
That was the River. Cool and smooth and deefp 3 

It glided to the sound o' folk below, 

Dazzling my eyes, till they began to grow 
Dusty and dim with sleep. 
Oh, sleepily I stood, and gazed, and hearken' d ! 

And saw a strange, bright light, that slowly fled, 

Shine through the smoky mist, and stain it red. 
And suddenly the water flash'd, — then darken'd ; 
And for a little time, though I gazed on, 
The river and the sleepy light were gone ; 
But suddenly, over the roofs there lightened 

A pale, strange brightness out of heaven shed, 
And, with a sweep that made me sick and frighten'd 3 



liz. 33 

The yellow Moon roll'd up above my head; — 
And down below me roar'd the noise o' trade, 
And ah ! I felt alive, and was afraid, 

And cold, and hungry, crying out for bread. 

v. 

All that is like a dream. It don't seem true! 
Father was gone, and mother left, you see, 
To work for little brother Ned and me ; 

And up among the gloomy roofs we grew, — 

Lock'd in full oft, lest we should wander out, 
With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat, 

While mother chard for poor folk round about, 
Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street 

Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair, 

To make the time pass happily up there : 

A steamboat going past upon the tide, 
A pigeon lighting on the roof close by, 
The sparrows teaching little ones to fly, 

The small white moving clouds, that we espied, 
And thought were living, in the bit of sky — 
With sights like these right glad were Ned and I ; 

And then, we loved to hear the soft rain calling, 
Pattering, pattering, upon the tiles, 



34 LONDON POEMS. 



And it was fine to see the still snow falling, 

Making the housetops white for miles on miles, 
And catch it in our little hands in play, 
And laugh to feel it melt and slip away ! 
But I was six, and Ned was only three, 
And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; 

And one cold day, in winter time, when mother 
Had gone away into the snow, and we 

Sat close for warmth and cuddled one another, 
He put his little head upon my knee, 
And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, 

But look'd quite strange and old ; 
And when I shook him, kiss'd him, spoke to him, 

He smiled, and grew so cold. 
Then I was frighten'd, and cried out, and none 

Could hear me ; while I sat and nursed his head, 
Watching the whiten' d window, while the Sun 

Peep'd in upon his face, and made it red. 
And I began to sob ; — till mother came, 
Knelt down, and scream'd, aud named the good 
God's name, 

And told me he was dead. 
And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping, 

Placed him among the rags upon his bed, 



liz. 35 

I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping, 

And took his little hand, and felt no fear. 

But when the place grew gray and cold and drear, 
And the round Moon over the roofs came creeping, 

And put a silver shade 

All round the chilly bed where he was laid, 

I cried, and was afraid. 

VI. 

Ah, yes, it 's like a dream ; for time pass'd by, 

And I went out into the smoky air, 
Fruit-selling, Parson— trudging, wet or dry — 

Winter and summer — weary, cold, and bare. 
And when old mother laid her down to die, 
And parish buried her, I did not cry, 

And hardly seem'd to care ; 
I was too hungry, and too dull ; beside, 

The roar o' streets had made me dry as dust — 
It took me all my time, howe'er I tried, 

To keep my limbs alive and earn a crust ; 
I had no time for weeping. 

And when I was not out amid the roar, 

Or standing frozen at the playhouse door, 
Why, I was coil'd upon my straw, and sleeping. 



36 LONDON POEMS. 



Ah, pence were hard to gain ! 

Some girls were pretty, too, but I was plain : 

Fine ladies never stopp'd and look'd and smiled, 

And gave me money for my face's sake. 
That made me hard and angry when a child \ 

But now it thrills my heart, and makes it ache ! 
The pretty ones, poor things, what could they do, 

Fighting and starving in the wicked town, 

But go from bad to badder — down, down, down- 
Being so poor, and yet so pretty, too 1 
Never could bear the like of that — ah, no ! 
Better have starved outright than gone so low ! 

VII. 

But I 've no call to boast. I might have been 
As wicked, Parson dear, in my distress, 

But for your friend — you know the one I mean ? — 
The tall, pale lady, in the mourning dress. 

Though we were cold at first, that wore away — 
She was so mild and young, 
And had so soft a tongue, 

And eyes to sweeten what she loved to say. 

She never seem'd to scorn me — no, not she ; 

And (what was best) she seem'd as sad as me ! 



Liz. 37 

Not one of those that make a girl feel base, 
And call her names, and talk of her disgrace, 
And frighten one with thoughts of flaming hell, 

And fierce Lord God, with black and angry brow y 
But soft and mild, and sensible as well \ 

And oh, I loved her, and I love her now. 
She did me good for many and many a day — 

More good than pence could ever do, I swear. 

For she was poor, with little pence to spare — 
Learn'd me to read, and quit low words, and pray. 
And, Parson, though I never understood 
How such a life as mine was meant for good, 
And could not guess what one so poor and low 

Would do in that sweet place of which she spoke. 
And could not feel that God would let me go 

Into so bright a land with gentlefolk, 
I liked to hear her talk of such a place, 

And thought of all the angels she was best, 
Because her soft voice soothed me, and her face 

Made my words gentle, put my heart at rest. 

VIII. 

Ah, sir ! 'twas very lonesome. Night and day, 
Save when the sweet miss came, I was alone, — 



38 LONDON POEMS. 



Moved on and hunted through the streets of stone, 
And even in dreams afraid to rest or stay. 
Then, other girls had lads to work and strive for : 

I envied them, and did not know 'twas wrong, 

And often, very often, used to long 
For some one I could like and keep alive for. 
Marry? Not they ! 

They can't afford to be so good, you know ; 
But many of them, though they step astray, 

Indeed don't mean to sin so much, or go 
Against what ? s decent. Only — 'tis their way. 
And many might do worse than that, may be, 

If they had ne'er a one to fill a thought — 
It sounds half wicked, but poor girls like me 

Must sin a little, to be good in aught. 



IX. 

So I was glad when I began to see 

That Joe the costermonger fancied me ; 

And when, one night, he took me to the play, 
Over on Surrey side, and offer'd fair 
That we should take a little room and share 

Our earnings, why, I could not answer " Nay I" 



Liz. 39 

And that 's a year ago ; and though I 'm bad, 

I 've been as true to Joe as girl could be. 
I don't complain a bit of Joe, dear lad, 

Joe never, never meant but well to me ; 
And we have had as fair a time, I think, 

As one could hope, since we are both so low. 

Joe likes me — never gave me push or blow, 
When sober : only, he was wild in drink. 
But then we don't mind beating when a man 

Is angry, if he likes us and keeps straight, 
Works for his bread, and does the best he can ; — 

'Tis being left and slighted that we hate. 



And so the baby 's come, and I shall die ! 

And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here, 

Where folk will think him bad, and all 's so drear, 
The great Lord God knows better far than I. 
Ah, don't ! — 'tis kindly, but it pains me so ! 
You say I 'm wicked, and I want to go ! 
"God's kingdom," Parson dear? Ah nay, ah nay ! 

That must be like the country — which I fear : 
I saw the country once, one summer day, 

And I would rather die in London here ! 



40 LONDON POEMS. 



XI. 

For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife. 

And took a sudden fancy in my head 

To try the country, and to earn my bread 
Out among fields, where I had heard one's life 
Was easier and brighter. So, that day, 
I took my basket up and stole away, 
Just after sunrise. As I went along, 

Trembling and loath to leave the busy place, 
I felt that I was doing something wrong, ■ 

And fear'd to look policemen in the face. 
And all was dim : the streets were gray and wet 

After a rainy night : and all was still ; 

I held my shawl around me with a chill, 
And dropt my eyes from every face I met ; 
Until the streets began to fade, the road 

Grew fresh and clean and wide, 
Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode, 

And gardens full of flowers, on every side. 
That made me walk the quicker — on, on, on — 

As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes, 

And all at once I saw, to my surprise, 
The houses of the gentlefolk were gone, 



LIZ. 41 

And I was standing still, 

Shading my face, upon a high green hill, 

And the bright sun was blazing, 
And all the blue above me seem'd to melt 

To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing 
On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt. 



XII. 

I 'II ne'er forget that day. All was so bright 

And strange. Upon the grass around my feet 
The rain had hung a million drops of light ; 

The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet, 
It seem'd a sin to breathe it. All around 

Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through 

A burning, blazing fire of gold and blue ; 
And there was not a sound, 

Save a bird singing, singing, in the skies, 
And the soft wind, that ran along the ground, 

And blew full sweetly on my lips and eyes. 
Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest, 

Because the bright air pain'd me, trembling, 
sighing, 
I stole into a dewy field to rest, 



42 LONDON POEMS. 



And oh, the green, green grass where I was lying 
Was fresh and living — and the bird sang loud, 
Out of a golden cloud — 

And I was looking up at him and crying ! 

XIII. 

How swift the hours slipt on ! — and by and by 

The sun grew red, big shadows fill'd the sky, 
The air grew damp with dew, 
And the dark night was coining down, I knew. 

Well, I was more afraid than ever, then, 

And felt that I should die in such a place, — 
So back to London town I turn'd my face, 

And crept into the great black streets again ; 

And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar, 
Why, I was better, for in London here 
My heart was busy, and I felt no fear. 

I never saw the country any more. 

And I have stay'd in London, well or ill — 
I would not stay out yonder if I could, 
For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good — 

I could not bear a life so bright and still. 

All that I want is sleep, 

Under the flags and stones, so deep, so deep ! 



43 



God won't be hard on one so mean, but He, 
Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound 
There in the deep cold darkness under ground ; 

And I shall waken up in time, may be, 

Better and stronger, not afraid to see 

The great, still Light that folds Him round and 
round ! 

XIV. 

See ! there 's the sunset creeping through the pane — 

How cool and moist it looks amid the rain ! 

I like to hear the slashing of the drops 

On the house tops, 

And the loud humming of the folk that go 

Along the streets below ! 

I like the smoke and roar — I am so bad — 

They make a low one hard, and still her cares. . . . 

There 's Joe ! I hear his foot upon the stairs ! — 
He must be wet, poor lad ! 
He will be angry, like enough, to find 

Another little life to clothe and keep. 
But show him baby, Parson— speak him kind — 

And tell him Doctor thinks I ; m going to sleep. 
A hard, hard life is his ! He need be strong 



44 LONDON POEMS. 



And rough, to earn his bread and get along. 
I think he will be sorry when I go, 

And leave the little one and him behind. 

I hope he '11 see another to his mind, 
To keep him straight and tidy. Poor old Joe ! 



Ill 



THE STARLING. 



THE STARLING. 



HP HE little lame tailor 

Sat stitching and snarling — 
Who in the world 

Was the tailor's darling? 
To none of his kind 
Was he well-inclined, 

But he doted on Jack the starling. 



ii. 

For the bird had a tongue, 
And of words good store^ 



48 LONDON POEMS. 



And his cage was hung 

Just over the door, 
And he saw the people, 

And heard the roar, — 
Folk coming and going 

Evermore, — 
And he look'd at the tailor,- 

And swore. 



III. 

From a country lad 

The tailor bought him, — 
His training was bad, 

For tramps had taught him ; 
On alehouse benches 

His cage had been, 
While louts and wenches 

Made jests obscene, — 
But he learned, no doubt, 

His oaths from fellows 
Who travel about 

With kettle and bellows, 



THE STARLING. 49 



And three or four, 

The roundest by far 
That ever he swore, 

Were taught by a tar. 
And the tailor heard — 

" We '11 be friends ! " said he, 
" You 're a clever bird, 

And our tastes agree — 
We both are old, 

And esteem life base, 
The whole world cold. 

Things out of place, 
And we ; re lonely too, 

And full of care — 
So what can we do 

But swear? 



IV. 

" The devil take you, 

How you mutter ! — 
Yet there *s much to make you 

Swear and flutter. 

D 



50 LONDON POEMS. 



You want the fresh air 

And the sunlight, lad, 
And your prison there 

Feels dreary and sad, 
And here I frown 

In a prison as dreary, 
Hating the town, 

And feeling weary : 
We 're too confined, Jack, 

And we want to fly, 
And you blame mankind, Jack, 

And so do I ! 
And then, again, 

By chance as it were, 
We learn' d from men 

How to grumble and swear ; 
You let your throat 

By the scamps be guided, 
And swore by rote — 

All just as I did ! 
And without beseeching, 

Relief is brought us — 
For we turn the teaching 

On those who taught us ! " 



THE STARLING. 51 



V. 

A haggard and ruffled 

Old fellow was Jack, 
With a grim face muffled 

In ragged black, 
And his coat was rusty 

And never neat, 
And his wings were dusty 

From the dismal street, • 
And he sidelong peer'd, 

With eyes of soot too, 
And scowl'd and sneer'd, — 

And was lame of a foot too ! 
And he long'd to go 

From whence he came ; — 
And the tailor, you know, 

Was just the same. 



VL 



All kinds of weather 
They felt confined, 



52 LONDON POEMS. 



And swore together 

At all mankind ; 
For their mirth was done, 

And they felt like brothers, 
And the swearing of one 

Meant no more than the other's ; 
'Twas just a way 

They had leam'd, you see, — 
Each wanted to say 

Only this — " Woe 's me ! 
I 'm a poor old fellow, 

And I 'm prison'd so, 
While the sun shines mellow, 
And the corn waves yellow, 

And the fresh winds blow, — 
And the folk don't care 

If I live or die, 
But I long for air, 

And I wish to fly ! ;? 
Yet unable to utter it, 

And too wild to bear, 
They could only mutter it, 

And swear. 



THE STARLING. 



VII. 

Many a year 

They dwelt in the city, 
In their prisons drear, 

And none felt pity, 
And few were sparing 

Of censure and coldness, 
To hear them swearing 

With such plain boldness ; 
Eut at last, by the Lord, 

Their noise was stopt, — 
For down on his board 

. The tailor dropt, 
And they found him dead, 

And done with snarling, 
And over his head 

Still grumbled the Starling ; 
But when an old Jew 

Claim' d the goods of the tailor, 
And with eye askew 

Eyed the feathery railer, 
And, with a frown 

At the dirt and rust, 



54 LONDON POEMS. 



Took the old cage down, 
In a shower of dust, — 

Jack, with heart aching, 
Felt life past bearing, 

And shivering, quaking, 

All hope forsaking, 
Died swearing. 



IV. 
JANE LEWSON. 

Clasping his knee with one soft lady-hand, 

The other fingering his glass of wine, 
Black-raimented, white-hair'd, polite, and bland, 

With mellow voice discourses Doctor Vine : 
He warmi,- with deep eyes stirr'd to thoughtful light, 

And round about his serious talk the while, 
Kindly, yet pensive — worldly wise, yet bright, 

Like bloom upon the blackthorn blows his smile. 



JANE LEWSON. 

A H, strong and mighty are we mortal men ! 
Braving the whirlwind on a ship at sea, 
Facing the grim fort's hundred tongues of fire. 
Ay, and in England, 'neath the olive branch, 
Pushing a stubborn elbow through the crowd, 
To get among the heights that keep the gold ; 
But there is might and might, — and in the one 
Our dames and daughters shame us. Come, my friend, 
My man of sinew, — conscious of your strength, 
Proud of your well-won wrestles with the world, — 
Hear what a feeble nature can endure ! 

A little yellow woman, dress'd in black, 

With weary crow's-feet crawling round the eyes, 



58 LONDON POEMS. 



And solemn voice, that seenVd a call to prayer; 

Another yellow woman, dress'd in black, 

Sid, too, and solemn, yet with bitterness 

Burn'd in upon the edges of her lips, 

And sharper, thinner, less monotonous voice; 

And last, a little woman auburn-hair' d, 

Pensive a little, but not solemnised, 

And pretty, with the open azure eyes, 

The white soft cheek, the little mindless mouth, 

The drooping childish languor. There they dwelt, 

In a great dwelling of a smoky square 

In Islington, named by their pious friends, 

And the lean Calvinistic minister — 

The Misses Lewson, and their sister Jane. 



Miss Sarah, in her twenty-seventh year, 
Knew not the warmer passions of her sex, 
But groan'd both day and night to save her soul; 
Miss Susan, two years younger, had regrets 
Her sister knew not, and a secret pain 
Because her heart was withering — whence her tongue 
Could peal full sharp at times, and show a sting ; 
But Jane was comely — might have cherish' d hopes, 



JANE LEWSON. 59 



Since she was only twenty, had her mind 

Been hopefuller. The elders ruled the house. 

Obedience and meekness to their will 

Was a familiar habit Jane had learn'd 

Full early, and had fitted to her life 

So closely, 'twas a portion of her needs. 

She gazed on them, as Eastern worshippers 

Gaze on a rayless picture of the sun. 

Her acts seem'd other than her own ; her heart 

Kept melancholy time to theirs ; her eyes 

Look'd ever unto them for help and light ; 

Her eyelids droop'd before them if they chid. 

A woman weak and dull, yet fair of face ! 

Her mother, too, had been a comely thing — 

A bright-hair'd child wed to an aged man, 

A heart that broke because the man was hard, — 

Not like the grim first wife, who brought the gold, 

And yielded to his melancholy kiss 

The melancholy virgins. Well, the three, 

Alone in all the world, dwelt in the house 

Their father left them, living by the rents 

Of certain smaller houses of the poor. 

And they were stern to wring their worldly dues — 

Not charitable, since the world was base, 



6o LONDON POEMS. 



But cold to all men, save the minister, 

Who weekly cast the darkness of his blessing 

Over their chilly table. 

All around 
The life of London shifted like a cloud, 
Men sinned, and women fell, and children cried, 
And Want went ragged up and down the lanes ; 
While the two hueless sisters dragg'd their chain 
Self-woven, pinch' d their lives complexionless, 
Keeping their feelings quiet, hard, and pure. 
But Jane felt lonesome in the world ; and oft, 
Pausing amid her work, gazed sadly forth 
Upon the dismal square of wither' d trees, 
The dusty grass that grew within the rails, 
The garden-plots where here and there a flower 
Grew up, and sicken'd in the smoke, and died ; 
And when the sun was on the square, and sounds 
Came from the children in the neighbouring streets, 
She thought of happy homes among the fields, 
And brighter faces. When she walk'd abroad, 
The busy hum of life oppress'd her heart 
And frighten' d her : she did not raise her eyes, 
But stole along, — a sweet shape clad in black, 



JANE LEWS ON. 6 1 



A pale and pretty face, at which the men 

Stared vacant admiration. Far too dull 

To blame her gloomy sisters for the shape 

Her young days took, she merely knew the world 

Was drear ; and if at times she dared to dream 

Of things that made her colour come and go, 

And dared to hope for cheerier, sunnier days, 

She grew the wanner afterwards, and felt 

Sad and ashamed. The dull life that she wore, 

Like to a gloomy garment, day by day, 

Was a familiar life, the only life 

She clearly understood. Coldly she heard 

The daily tale of human sin and wrong, 

And the small thunders of the Sunday nights 

In chapel. All around her were the streets, 

And frightful sounds, and gloomy sunless faces. 

And thus with tacit dolour she resign'd 

Her nature to the hue upon the cheeks 

Of her cold sisters. Yet she could not pray 

As they prayM, could not wholly feel and know 

The blackness of mankind, her own heart's sin ; 

But when she tried to get to God, and yearn'd 

For help not human, she could only cry. 

Feeling a loveless and a useless thing, 



62 LONDON POEMS. 



Thinking of those sweet places in the fields, 
Those homes whereon the sun shone pleasantly, 
And happy mothers sat at cottage doors 
Among their children. 

Save for household work, 
She would have wasted soon. From week to week 
The burthen lay on her, — the gloomy twain 
Being too busy searching for their souls, 
And begging God above to spare the same. 
Yet she was quiet thus, content and glad 
To silent drudgery, such as saved her heart 
From wilder flutterings. The Sabbath day 
Was drearest : drest in burial black, she sat 
Those solemn hours in chapel, listening, 
And scarcely heeding what she heard, but watching 
The folk around, their faces and their dress, 
Or gazing at the sunshine on the floor ; 
And service over, idly pined at home, 
And, looking from the window at the square, 
Long'd for the labour of the coming day. 
Her sisters watch'd her warily, be sure ; 
And though their hearts were pure as pure could be, 
They loved her none the better for her face. 



JANE LEWSON. 63 



Love is as cunning as disease or death, 
No doctor's skill will ward him off or cure, 
And soon he found this pale and weary girl, 
Despite the cloud of melancholy life 
That rain'd around her. In no beauteous shape, 
In guise of passionate stripling iris-eyed, 
Such as our poets picture in their songs, 
Love came \ — but in the gloomy garb of one 
Whom men calFd pious, and whose holy talk 
Disarm' d the dragons. 'Twere but idle, friend, 
To count the wiles by which he won his way 
Into her heart ; how she vouchsafed him all 
The passion of a nature not too strong ; 
How, when the first wild sunshine dazzled her, 
The woman loved so blindly, that her thoughts 
Became a secret trouble in the house ; 
And how at last, with white and frighten'd face, 
She glided out into the dark one night, 
And vanished with no utterance of farewell. 

The sisters gave a quick and scandall'd cry, 
And sought a little for the poor flown bird; 
Then, thinking awful things, composed their hearts 
In silence, pinch' d their narrow natures more, 



64 LONDON POEMS. 



And waited. " This is something strange/' they thought, 

"Which God will clear; we will not think the worst, 

Although she was a thing as light as straw." 

Nor did they cry their fear among their friends, 

Hawking a secret shame, but calmly waited, 

Trusting no stain would fall upon their chill 

And frosty reputations. Weeks pass'd by; 

They pray'd, they fasted, yellowing more and more, 

They waited sternly for the end, and heard 

The timid knock come to the door at last. 

It was a dark and rainy night; the streets 
Were gleaming watery underneath the lamps, 
The dismal wind scream'd fitfully without, 
And made within a melancholy sound ; 
And the faint knock came to the door at last. 
The sisters look'd in one another's faces, 
And knew the wanderer had return' d again, 
But spoke not ; and the younger sister rose, 
Open'd the door, peer'd out into the rain, 
And saw the weary figure shivering there, 
Holding a burthen underneath her shawl. 
And silently, with wan and timid look, 
The wanderer slipt in. No word of greeting 



JANE LEWS ON. 



Spake either of the sisters, but their eyes 

Gleam'd sharply, and they waited. White and cold, 

Her sweet face feebly begging for a word, 

Her long hair dripping loose and wet, stood Jane 

Before them, shivering, clasping tight her load, 

In the dull parlour with the cheerless fire. 

Till Susan, pointing, cried in a shrill voice, 

" What are you carrying underneath your shawl, 

Jane Lewson?" and the faint despairing voice, 

While the rain murmur' d and the night-wind blew, 

Moan'd, " It 's my Babyf" and could say no more, 

For the wild sisters scream'd and raised their hands, 

And Jane fell quivering down upon her knees, 

The old shawl opening show'd a child asleep, 

And, trebling terror with a piteous cry, 

The child awaken' d. 

Pointing to the door, 
With twitching lips of venom, Susan said — 
" Go l" and the elder sister echo'd her 
More sadly and more solemnly. But Jane, 
Clinging to Sarah's skirts, implored and moan'd, 
" Don't turn me out ! my little girl will die ! 
I have no home in all the world but here; 



66 LONDON POEMS. 



Kill me, but do not drive me from the house V 
"Jane Lewson," Susan cried, as white as death, 
"Where is the father of this child?" and Jane 
Moan'd, " Gone, gone, gone ;" and when she named 

his name, 
And how, while she who spake in sickness lay, 
He secretly had fled across the seas, 
They shiver'd to the hair. Holding her hand 
Upon her heart, the elder sister spake 
In dull monotonous voice — " Look up ! look up ! 
Perhaps 'tis not so ill as we believed. 
Are you a wedded woman V 9 The reply 
Was silentness and heavy drooping eyes, 
Yet with no blush around the quivering lids ; 
And Sarah, freezing into ice, spake on 
In dull monotonous voice — " Your sin has brought 
Shame on us all, but they who make their beds 
Must sleep upon them ; go away, bad woman ! 
The third of what our father left is yours, 
But you are not our sister any more." 
Still moaning, shuddering, the girl begg'd on, 
Nor ceased to rock the babe and still its cries, 
cc Kill me, but do not drive me from the house ! 
Put any pain upon me that you please,. 



JANE LEWS ON. 67 



But do not, do not, drive me forth again 
Into the dreadful world ! I have no friends 
On all the earth save you !" The sisters look'd 
At one another, and without a word 
Walk'd from the room. 

Jane sat upon the floor, 
Soothing the child, and did not rise, but waited ; 
The agony and terror dried her tears, 
And she could only listen, praying God 
That He would soften them ; and the little one 
Look'd in her face and laughed. 

A weary hour 
Pass'd by, and then, still white, and stern, and cold, 
The sisters enter'd, and the elder one 
Spake without prelude : "We have talk'd it o'er, 
Jane Lewson, and have settled how to act; 
You have a claim upon us : will you take 
The third of what our father left, and find 
Another home V But Jane cried, "Do not, do not, 
Drive me away ; I have no friends save you ; 
And I am sorry." Trembling, for her heart 
Was not all cold, the elder icicle 



LONDON POEMS. 



Resumed : " Take what is left you, and be gone, 

And never see our faces any more ; 

Or if you will, stay with us here, but only 

On these conditions : For the infant's sake, 

And for the sake of our good name, our friends 

Must never know the miserable child 

Is yours ; but we will have it given out 

That, being lonely and unwedded here, 

We have adopted a poor tenant's child, 

With view to bring it up in godliness. " 

Jane answer'd, with a feeble thrill of hope, 

" Anything, anything, — only leave me not 

Alone in the dark world." " Peace !" Susan said, 

" You do not understand : the child herself 

Must never know Jane Lewson is her mother : 

Neither by word nor look nor tender folly, 

Must you reveal unto the child her shame, 

And yours, and ours !" Then, with a bitter cry, 

And a wild look, Jane cried, " And must my babe 

Not know me ?" " Never," Sarah Lewson said : 

" For the babe's sake, for yours, for ours, the shame 

Must not be utter'd. See, you have your choice : 

Take what our father gave you, and depart, 

Or stay on these conditions. We are firm. 



JANE LEWSON. 69 



We have decided kindly, not forgetting 
You were our sister, nor that this poor child 
Is blameless, save that all the flesh is sin, 
But not forgetting, either, what we owe 
To God above us." Weeping o'er the child, 
Not rising yet, Jane answered, "I will stay; 
Yes, gladly, for the little baby's sake, 
That folk may never call it cruel names." 
And the stern sisters took from off the shelf 
The great old Bible, placed it in her hands 
And made her kiss it, swearing before God 
Never to any one in all the world, 
Not even to the child itself, to tell 
She was its sinful mother. Wild and dazed, 
She sware upon the Word. " That is enough," 
Said Sarah ; " but, Jane Lewson, never again 
Speak to us of the evil that has pass'd ; 
Live with us as you used to do, and ask 
The grace of God, who has been kinder far 
Than you deserved." 

Thus, friend, these icicles 
Dealt their hard measure, deeming that they did 
A virtuous and a righteous deed ; and Jane, 



70 LONDON POEMS. 



The worn and mindless woman, sank again 

Into submission and house-drudgery, 

Comforted that she daily saw her child, 

And that her shame was hidden from the world, 

And that the child would never suffer scorn 

Because a sinner bore it. But her heart 

Was a bruised reed, the little sunny hue 

Had gone from all things ; and whene'er she pray'd. 

She thought the great cold God above her head 

Dwelt on a frosty throne and did not hear. 



JANE 1EWS0N. 71 



II. 



Yet He, the Almighty Lord of this our breath, 
Did see and hear, and surely pitied too, 
If God can pity, — but He works as God, 
Not man, and so we cannot understand. 

No whisper of reproach, no spoken word, 
Troubled with memories of her sinfulness 
The suffering woman ; yet her daily life 
Became a quiet sorrow. In the house 
She labour'd with her hands from morn to night, 
Seeing few faces save the pensive ones 
Whose yellow holiness she boVd before ; 
And tacitly they suffer'd her to sink 
Into the household drudge, — with privilege 
Upon the Sabbath day to dress in black, 
oit in the sunless house or go to prayer, — 



72 LONDON POEMS. 



So idle, that her thoughts could travel back 
To shame and bitterness. Her only joy- 
Was when she gave her little girl the breast, 
(They dared not rob her weary heart of that,) 
When, seated all alone, she felt it suck, 
And, as the little lips drew forth the milk, 
Felt drowsily resigned, and closed her eyes, 
And trembled, and could feel the happy tears. 

There came a quiet gathering in the house, 
And by the gloomy minister the child 
Was christen' d ; and the name he gave to her 
Was " Margaret Lewson." For the sisters said, 
" Her mother being buried, as it were, 
The girl shall take our name." And Jane sat by, 
And heard the pious lie with aching heart, 
And ever after that her trouble grew. 

Soon, when the sound of little feet were heard 
In the dull dwelling, and a baby-voice 
Call'd at the mothers heart, Jane thrill'd and heard, 
But even as she listen'd the sweet sounds 
Would seem to die into the cloud that hid 
The great cold God above her. Margaret 



JANE LEWSON. 73 



Grew to a little wildling, quick and bright, 

Black-eyed, black-hair 5 d, and passionate and quick, 

Not like its mother ; fierce and wild when chid, 

So that the gloomy sisters often thought, 

"There is a curse upon it;" yet they grew 

To love the little wildling unaware, 

Indulged it in their stern and solemn way, 

More cheer'd than they believed by its shrill laugh 

Within the dismal dwelling. But the child 

Clung most to Jane, and though, when first it learn' d 

To call her by her Christian name, the sound 

Bruised the poor suffering heart, that wore away ; 

And all the little troubles of the child, 

The pretty joys, the peevish fits, the bursts 

Of passion, worked upon her nature so, 

That all her comfort was to snatch it up, 

And cover it with kisses secretly. 

Wilful and passionate, yet loving too, 

Grew Margaret, — an echo in a cave 

Of human life without; clinging to Jane, 

Who never had the heart to fondle it 

Before her sisters ; not afraid at times 

To pinch the thin, worn arms, or pull the hairs 

Upon the aching head, but afterwards 



74 LONDON POEMS. 



Curing the pain with kisses and with tears. 
So that as time wore on the mother's heart 
Grew tenderer to its trouble than before. 

Then later, when the little girl went forth 
To school hard by, the motion and the light 
Hied from the house ; and all the morning hours 
The thin face came and went against the panes, 
Looking out townward, — till the little shape 
Appear' d out of the cloud, and pale eyes grew 
Dim to its coming. As the years went on, 
The mother, with the agony in her heart 
She could not utter, quietly subdued 
Her nature to a listening watchfulness : 
Her face grew settled to expectant calm, 
Her vision penetrated things around 
And gazed at something lying far beyond, 
Her very foot linger'd about the house, 
As if she loiter'd hearkening for a sound 
Out of the world. For Margaret, as she grew, 
Was wilder and more wilful, openly 
Mastered the gloomy virgins, and escaped 
The pious atmosphere they daily breathed 
To gambol in a freer, fresher air ; 



JANE LEWS ON. 7$ 



And Jane would think, " 'Twill kill me, if my child 

Should turn out wicked." Mindless though she was, 

And feeble, yet the trouble made her sense 

Quick, sharp, and subtle to perceive and watch. 

A little word upon the girlish tongue 

Could sting her, — nay, a light upon the face, 

A kindling of the eye, a look the child 

Wore when asleep, would trouble her for days, 

Carrying strangest import. So she waited, 

Watching and listening, — while the young new life 

Drew in the air, and throve, absorbing hues 

Out of a thousand trivial lights and shades 

That hover' d lightly round it. Still to Jane 

The habit of submission clung : she watch' d 

The wiser sterner faces oftentimes, 

Trembling for confirmation of her fears ; 

And nightly pray'd that God, who was so just, 

So hard to those who went astray at all, 

Would aid her sisters, helping them to make 

The little Margaret better as she grew, — 

Waking her secret trouble evermore 

With countless, nameless acts of help and love, 

And humble admonition, — comforted 

By secret fondlings of the little anns, 



76 LONDON POEMS. 



Or kisses on the tiny, wilful mouth 
Apart in childish slumber. 

Thus the years 
Pass'd over her like pensive clouds, and melted 
Into that dewy glamour on the brain, 
Which men call Memory. Wherefore recount 
The little joys and sorrows of the time : 
The hours when sickness came, and thought itself 
Tick'd like a death-watch, — all the daily hopes 
And impulses and fears % Enough to tell, 
That all went onward like a troubled stream, 
Until the sisters, worn and growing old, 
Felt the still angel coming nearer nearer, 
Scattering sleep-dust on uplooking eyes ; 
And Jane, though in her prime, was turning gray; 
And Margaret was a maiden flower full-blown. 

A passion-flower ! — a maiden whose rich heart 
Burn'd with intensest fire that turn'd the light 
Of the sweet eyes into a warm dark dew ; 
One of those shapes so marvellously made, 
Strung so intensely, that a finger-press, 
The dropping of a stray curl unaware 



JANE LEWSON. 77 



Upon the naked breast, a look, a tone, 

Can vibrate to the very roots of life, 

And draw from out the spirit light that seems 

To scorch the tender cheeks it shines upon; 

A nature running o'er with ecstasy 

Of very being, an appalling splendour 

Of animal sensation, loveliness 

Like to the dazzling panther's; yet, withal, 

The gentle, wilful, clinging sense of love, 

Which makes a virgin's soul. It seem'd, indeedj 

The gloomy dwelling and the dismal days, 

Gloaming upon her heart, had lent this show 

Of shining life a melancholy shade 

That trebled it in beauty. Such a heart 

Needed no busy world to make it beat : 

It could throb bumingly in solitude ; 

Since kindly Heaven gave it strength enough 

To rock the languid blood into the brains 

Of twenty smaller natures. 

Then the pain, 
The wonder, deepened on the mother's heart,— 
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
To be her mother. As she might have watch'd 



78 LONDON POEMS. 



A wondrous spirit from another world, 

Jane Lewson watch'd her child. Could this fair 

This wild and dazzling life, be born of her ? — 

A lightning flash struck from a pensive cloud 

The wan still moon is drinking'? Like a woman 

Who has been sick in darkness many days, 

And steps into the sunshine, Jane beheld 

Her daughter, and felt blind. A terror grew 

Upon her, that the smother' d sense of pride 

Lack'd power to kill. She pray'd, she wept, she 

dream' d, 
And thought, if Margaret's had been a face 
More like the common faces of the streets, 
Twould have been better. With this feeling, grew 
The sense of her own secret. Oftentimes 
A look from Margaret brought the feeble blush 
Into the bloodless cheek ; — creeping away 
Into her chamber, Jane would wring her hands, 
Moaning in pain, " God help me ! If she knew ! 
Ah, if she knew !" And then for many days 
Would haunt the dwelling fearfully, afraid 
To look on what she loved, — till once again, 
Some little kindness, some sweet look or tone 3 



J AXE LEW SOX. 79 



A happy kiss, would bring her courage back 
And cheer her. 

Nor had Margaret fail'd to win 
The hard-won sisters ; oft their frosty eyes 
Enlarged themselves upon her and grew thawed — 
In secret she was mistress over both — 
And in their loveless way, they also felt 
A frighten'd pleasure in the beauteous thing 
That brighten' d the dull dwelling. 

Oftentimes, 
The fiery maiden-nature flashing forth 
In wilful act or speech or evil looks, 
Deepen'd Jane's terror. Margaret heeded not 
The sisters' pious teachings, did not show 
A godly inclination, — nay, at times 
Mock'd openly. Ah, had she guess'd the pain, 
The fear, the agony, such mockings gave 
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
To be her mother ! In her secret heart 
Jane deem'd her own deep sorrows all had come 
Because she had not, in her dreary youth, 
Been godly ; and as such flashes as she saw 



80 LONDON POEMS. 



Gleam from her girl, seem'd wicked things indeed ; 
And at such times the weary woman's eyes 
Would seek the sunless faces, searching them 
For cheer or warning. 

In its season came 
That light which takes from others what it gives 
To him or her who, standing glorified, 
Awaits it. ? Tis the old, sad mystery ; 
No gift of love that comes upon a life 
But means another's loss. The new sweet joy. 
That play'd in tender colours and mild fire 
On Margaret's cheek, upon the mother's, heart 
Fell like a firebrand. 

For to Jane, her friend, 
Her dearest in the household from the first, 
Her mother, her worn mother, whom she knew not 
To be her mother, Margaret first told 
The terror — how she loved and was beloved ; 
And seated at Jane's feet, with eyes upturned, 
Playing with the worn fingers, she exclaimed, 
" I love him, Jane ! and you will love him too I 
I will not marry any other man I" 



JANE LEWSON. 8l 



And suddenly Jane felt as if the Lord 
Had come behind her in the dark and breathed 
A burning fire upon her. For she thought, 
" My child will go away, and I shall die !" 
But only murmur'd, " Marry, Margaret 1 

You are too young to marry !" and her face 

Was like a murder' d woman's. 

And the pain, 
The agony, deepen'd, when the lover's face 
Came smiling to the dwelling, young and bright 
With pitiless gladness. Jane was still, and moan'd, 
" My child will go away, and I shall die !" 
And look'd upon her sisters, and could see 
They pitied her ; but their stern faces said, 
" This is God's will ! the just God governs all ! 
How should we cross such love V adding, " Beware, — 
For our sakes, for your own, but chief of all 
For her sake whom you love, remember now ! 
Pray, and be silent !" And the wounded heart 
Cried up to God again, and from the sky 
No answer came ; when, crushed beneath her pain 3 
The woman sicken'd, lay upon her bed, 
And thought her time was come. 



82 LONDON POEMS. 



Most tenderly 
Her daughter nursed her ; little fathoming 
The meaning of the wild and yearning look 
That made the white face sweet and beautiful ; 
For Jane was saying, " Lord ! I want to die ! 
My child would leave me, or my useless life 
Would turn a sorrow to her, if I stay'd : 
Lord, let me die ! " Yea, the dull nature clung 
Still unto silence, with the still resolve 
Of mightier natures. Thinking she would die, 
Jane lay as in a painless dream, and watch'd 
The bright face stir around her, following 
The shape about the room, and praying still 
For strength — so happy in her drowsy dream, 
That she went chill at times, and felt that thoughts 
So tranquil were a sin. A darker hour 
Gloam'd soon upon her brain. She could not see 
The face she loved ; murmur'd delirious words ; 
And in the weary watches of the night, 
Moaning and wringing hands, with closed eyes, 
Cried "Margaret! Margaret!" Then the sisters 

sought . 
To lead the girl away, lest she should hear 
The secret ; but she conquer'd, and remain'd j 



JANE LEWSON. 83 



And one still evening, when the quiet fire 
Was making ghosts that quiver' d on the floor 
To the faint time-piece ticking, Jane awoke, 
Gazed long and strangely at the shining face, 
Waved her thin arms, cried, " Margaret ! Margaret ! 
Where are you, Margaret ? Have you gone away? 
Come to your mother ! " The wild cry of pain 
Startled the maiden, but she only thought 
The fever' d woman raved. Twining her arms 
Around Jane's neck, she murmur' d, " I am here ! " 
Weeping and kissing ; but the woman sigh'd 
And shiver'd, crying feebly, " Let me die ! 
My little girl has gone into the town, 
And she has learn'd to call me wicked names, 
And will not come again ! " 

When, wearied out, 
Jane sank to troubled sleep, her child sat still, 
Thinking of those strange words ; and though at last 
She shut them from her thought as idle dream, 
Their pain retum'd upon her. The next day 
She spake unto the sisters of the same, 
Adding, in a low voice, " She talk'd of me, 
And moan'd out loudly for a little child— 



84 LONDON POEMS. 



Has she a child ? " The first quick flash of fear 
Died from the yellow visages unseen, 
And they were calm. " Delirium ! " Sarah said ; 
"But you, my child, must watch her sick-bed 

less — 
You are too young, too weak, to bear such things/' 
And this time Margaret did not say a word, 
But yielded, thinking, " It is very strange ! — 
There is a mystery, and I will watch : 
Can Jane have had a child 1 n 

That very day 
The dark mists roll'd from the sick woman's brain, 
And she awoke, remembering nought, and saw 
The sisters watching her. Two days they watch' d ; 
And spake but very little, though they saw 
The wan eyes wander with a hungry look, 
Seeking the face they loved. Then Sarah took 
Jane's hand, and spake more gently, sisterly, 
(Such natures, friend, grow kinder as they age,) 
Than she had done for many years, and told 
Of those wild words utter d while she w r as ill ; 
Jane moan'd and hid her face ; but Sarah said, 
"We do not blame you, and perchance the Lord 



JANE LEWSON. S$ 



Spake through you ! We have thought it o'er, and 

pray'd : 
Now listen, Jane. Since that unhappy night, 
We have not spoken of your shame, yet know 
You have repented." With her face still hid, 
Jane falter'd, "Let me die \" but Sarah said, 
"We do not think, Jane Lewson, you will live; 
So mark me well. If, ere you go away, 
You feel that you could go more cheerfully, 
If you are certain that it is not sinj 
Poor Margaret shall know she is your child ; 
We will not, now you die, deny you this ; 
And Margaret will be silent of the shame,— 
And, lest you break your oath upon the Word, 
Our lips shall tell her." Still Jane Lewson hid 
Her face ; and all was quiet in the room, 
Save for a shivering sound and feeble crying. 
But suddenly Jane lifted up her face, 
Beauteous beyond all beauty given to joy, 
And quickly whispering, pressed the chilly hand — 
w I will not speak ! I will not hurt my child 
So cruelly ! — the child shall never know! 
And I will go in silence to my grave, 
Leaving her happy, — and perhaps the Lord 



86 



LONDON POEMS. 



Will pardon me ! " Then, for the first last time, 
The sisters look'd on Jane with different eyes, 
Admiring sternly, with no words of praise, 
Her they had scorn' d for feebleness so long. 



Even then the watchers in the chamber heard 
A sound that thrill' d them through, — a rustling dress, 
A deep hard breathing as of one in pain ; 
And pointing with her hand Jane scream'd aloud ; 
And turning suddenly the sisters saw 
A face as white as marble, yet illumed 
By great eyes flashing with a terrible flame 
That made them quail. And in a dangerous voice, 
As low as a snake's hissing, Margaret said, 
"I have heard all!" Then the great eyes were 

turn'd 
On Jane, and for a moment they were cold ; 
But all at once the breathless agony 
Of recognition struck upon her heart, 
The bosom heaved and moan'd, the bright tears burst, 
And Margaret flung herself upon the bed, 
Clasping her shivering mother ; and at first 
Jane shrank away, — but soon the wondrous love 
Master'd her, — she could smile and kiss and cry — 



JANE LEWSON. 87 



And hear the dear wild voice cry, " Mother ! mother !" 
And see the bright face through her tears, and feel 
That Love was there. 

After the first strange bliss 
Of meeting, both were stiller. Jane could weep, 
And bear to feel so happy. Margaret 
Clang to her mother, breathed her bliss upon her, 
Fondling the silver' d tresses, covering 
The thin hard hand with kisses and with tears, 
Trying to say a thousand merry things 
That died in sobs and tears, and only saying, 
For all the utterance of her speechful heart, 
" Mother ! my mother !" Suddenly her shame 
Came back upon the woman, and she turn'd 
To seek her sisters' faces piteousiy, 
But they had stolen from the happy room ; 
Whereon again she murmur'd, " Let me die ! 
I am a wicked woman, Margaret ! 
Why did you listen 1 " But a second burst 
Of love and blissful pain, and bitter things 
Kurl'd at the cruel sisters, answer'd her ; 
And more tears flow'd, and more fond kisses brushed 
The tears away, — until at last Jane cried, 



LONDON POEMS. 



u Dear, I could go away not weeping now — 
God is so gentle with me !" 

But He, who drew 
Thus from His cloud at last and look'd so kind, 
Will'd that Jane Lewson should not die so soon. 
The agony did not kill her, and the joy 
Sent a fresh life into her languid blood 
And saved her. So that soon she rose from bed, 
To see the sunshine on her daughter's face, 
To see the sunless sisters, who again 
Look'd cold as ever. 

But a burning fire 
From Margaret scorch'd them to the heart, because 
They loved the girl ; she heap'd upon their heads 
Rage and reproaches, mockery and scorn, 
Until they cried, " You are a wicked girl ! 
Jane Lewson's shame is on you. After this 
We cannot dwell together any more." 
And Margaret would have answer' d fiercelier still, 
But that her feeble mother, piteously 
Gazing at them to whom in spite of all 
Her heart was humble, begg'd her on her knees 



JANE LEWSON. 



For silence ; and, thus conquered, Margaret 
Answer'd her aunts with kisses and with tears 
Shower'd on her mother's face. 

That evening, 

Margaret held her mother round the neck, 
And led her to her lover in the house, 
And with her lips set firm together, saying, 
" This is my dear, dear mother," told him all, 
Concealing nothing. For a time, the man 
Look'd startled and appall'd ; but being made 
Of clay not base, he smiling spake at last, 
And stooping softly, kiss'd the thin worn hand — 
" She is my mother, too, — and we will dwell 
Together ! " 

And they dwelt together, — leaving 
The dismal dwelling in the smoky square, 
To dwell within a cottage close to town ; 
But Jane lived with them only for a year, 
And then, because the heart that had been used 
To suffering so long could not endure 
To be so happy, died ; worn out and tired, 
Kissing her child ; and as her dying thoughts 



90 LONDON POEMS. 



Went back along the years, the suffering seem'd 

Not such a thankless suffering after all, 

But like a faded garment one has learn'd 

To love through habit ; — and the woman cried 

On her stern sisters with her dying breath. 



LANGLEY LANE: 



% Hotie Poem. 



LANGLEY LANE. 

T N all the land, range up, range down, 

Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet, 
As Langley Lane, in London town, 

Just out of the bustle of square and street? 
Little white cottages, all in a row, 
Gardens, where bachelors'-buttons grow, 

Swallows' nests in roof and wall, 
And up above the still blue sky, 
Where the woolly-white clouds go sailing by, — 

I seem to be able to see it all ! 

For now, in summer, I take my chair, 
And sit outside in the sun, and hear 

The distant murmur of street and square, 

And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; 



94 LONDON POEMS. 



And Fanny, who lives just over the way, 
Comes running many a time each day, 

With her little hand's-touch so warm and kind; 
And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, 
And the little live hand seems to stir and speak, — 

For Fanny is dumb and I am blind. 

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she 

Has fine black ringlets, and dark eyes clear, 
And I am older by summers three, — 

Why should we hold one another so dear? 
Because she cannot utter a word, 
Nor hear the music of bee or bird, 

The water-cart's splash, or the milkman's call. 
Because I have never seen the sky, 
Nor the little singers that hum and fly, — 

Yet know she is gazing upon them all. 

For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, 
The bees and the blue-flies murmur low, 

And I hear the water-cart go by, 

With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row ; 

And the little one, close at my side, perceives 

Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, 



LANGLEY LANE. 95 



Where birds are chirping in summer shine, 
And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, 
Though she cannot hear, can the singers see, — 

And the little soft ringers flutter in mine. 

-.lath not the dear little hand a tongue, 

When it stirs on my palm for the love of me ? 
Do I not know she is pretty and young] 

Hath not my soul an eye to see ? 
'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, - 
To wonder how things appear to her, 

That I only hear as they pass around ; 
And as long as we sit in the music and light, 
She is happy to keep God's sight, 

And /am happy to keep God's sound. 

Why, I know her face, though I am blind — 

I made it of music long ago : 
Strange large eyes, and dark hair twined 

Round the pensive light of a brow of snow ; 
And when I sit by my little one, 
And hold her hand, and talk in the sun, 

And hear the music that haunts the place, 
I know she is raising her eyes to me, 



g6 LONDON POEMS. 



And guessing how gentle my voice must be, 
And seeing the music upon my face. 

Though, if ever Lord God should grant me a prayer, 

(I know the fancy is only vain.) 
I should pray : Just once, when the weather is fair, 

To see little Fanny and Langley Lane ; 
Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear 
The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, 

The song of the birds, the hum of the street, — 
It is better to be as we have been, — 
Each keeping up something, unheard, unseen, 

To make God's heaven more strange and sweet. 

Ah ! life is pleasant in Langley Lane ! 

There is always something sweet to hear; 
Chirping of birds, or patter of rain ; 

And Fanny, my little one, always near; 
And though I am weak, and cannot live long, 
And Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, 

And though we can never married be, — 
What then % — since we hold one another so dear, 
For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, 

And the pleasure that only one can see % 



VI. 
EDWARD CROWHURST; 

OR, "A NEW POET." 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 



Potts, in his dusty chamber, writes, 

A dilettante lord to please : 
A ray of country sunshine lights 

The foggy region ruled by these ; 
Flock, kind advisers, critics sage, 

To damn the simple country clown,' — 
The mud of English patronage 

Grows round his feet, and keeps him down. 



: ""PHIS little mean-faced duodecimo, 

1 Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer/ 
This coarsely-printed little book of rhymes, 
Contains within the goodliest gift of song 
The gods have graced us with for many a day : 
A crystal clearness, as of running brooks, 



LONDON POEMS. 



A music, as of green boughs murmuring, 
A peeping of fresh thoughts in shady places 
Like violets new-blown, a gleam of dewdrops, 
A sober, settled, greenness of repose, — 
And lying over all, in level beams, 
Transparent, sweet, and unmistakable, 
The light that never was on sea or land. 

* 
" Let all the greater and the lesser lights 
Regard these lines upon a Wood in Spring, 
Or those which follow, call'd ' the Barley-Bird,' 
And then regard their laurels. Melody 
More sweet was never blown through pastoral pipe 
In Britain, since the Scottish Ramsay died. 
Nor let the squeamish dreamers of our time, 
Our rainbow bards, despise such song as this, 
Wealthy in images the poor man knows, 
And household chords that make the women weep. 
Simply yet subtly, Edward Crowhurst works : 
Singing of lowly truths and homely things — 
Death snatching up a cotter's child at play, 
Light flashing from far worlds on dying eyes 
That never saw beyond their native fields, 
The pathos and the power of common life ; 



EDWARD CROWHURST. IOI 

And while, perchance, his "deeper vein runs on 

Less heeded, by a random touch is waken'd 

A scent, a flower-tint, a wave of wings, 

A sense of rustling boughs and running brooks, 

Touch' d by whose spell the soul is stirred, and eyes 

Gaze on the dark world round them, and are dim. 

* 
" This Mister Crowhurst is a poor young man, 
Uneducated, doom'd to earn his bread 
By working daily at the plough \ and yet, 
Sometimes in midst of toil, sometimes at night, 
Whenever he could snatch a little time, 
Hath written down (he taught himself to write !) 
His simple verses. Is it meet, we ask, 
A nature so superb should languish thus % 
Nay, he deserves, if ever man deserved, 
The succour of the rich and high in place, 
The opportunity to labour less, 
And use those truly wondrous gifts of his 
In modest competence ; and therewithal, 
Kindness, encouragement, and good advice, 
Such as the cultured give. Even now, we hear, 
A certain sum of money is subscribed, 
Enough to furnish well his present needs. 



102 LONDON rOEMS. 



Among the donors, named for honour here, 

We note the noble Earl of Chremiton, 

Lord Phidippus, Lord Gnathos, Lady Dee, 

Sir Charles Toroon. But more must yet be done. 

We dare to put the case on public grounds, 

Since he who writes so nobly is, indeed, 

A public benefactor, — with a claim 

On all who love to listen and to look, 

When the fresh Saxon Muse, in homespun gear, 

The free breeze blowing back her loosen'd hair, 

Wanders barefooted through the dewy lanes 

And sings aloud, while all the valleys ring 

For pleasure, and the echoes of the hills 

Make sweet accord ! " 

— Conservative Review, 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 
II. 

AFTER TEN YEARS. 



A homely matron, who has once been fair, 

In quiet suffering old, yet young in years ; 
Soft threads of silver in her auburn hair, . 

And lines around the eyes that tell of tears ; 
But on her face there trembles peaceful light, 
That seems a smile, and yet is far less bright,- 
To tell of watchings in the shade and sun, 
And melancholy duty sweetly done. 



"X 1 7 HAT, take away my Teddy? shut him up 

Between stone walls, as if he were a thief? 
You freeze my blood to talk of such a thing ! 
Why, these green fields where my old man was born, 



104 LONDON POEMS. 



The river, and the woodland, and the lanes, 

Are all that keep him living : he was ever 

O'er fond of things like those ; and now, you see, 

Is fonder of them than he was before, 

Because he thinks so little else is left. 

Mad 1 He'sa baby ! Would not hurt a fly! 

Can manage him as easy as our girl ! 

And though he was a poet and went wrong, 

He could not help his failings. Ah, True Heart, 

I love him all the deeper and the dearer! 

I would not lose him for the whole wide world ! 

It came through working lonely in the fields, 
And growing shy of cheerful company, 
And worrying his wits with idle things 
He saw and heard when quiet out o' doors. 
For, long ere we were wedded, all the place 
Knew Teddy's ways : how mad he was for flowers 
And singing birds ; how often at the plough 
He used to idle, holding up his head 
And looking at the clouds ; what curious stuff 
He used to say about the ways of things ; 
How week-days he was never company, 
Nor tidy on a Sunday. Even then 



EDWARD CROWHURST. IO5 

Folk call'd him stupid : so did I myself, 
At first, before his sheepishness wore off; 
And then, why I was frighten' d for a time 
To find how wondrous brightly he could look 
And talk, when with a girl, and no one by. 
Right soon he stole this heart of mine away, 
So cunningly I scarcely guess'd 'twas gone, 
But found my tongue at work before I knew, 
Sounding his praises. Mother shook her head; 
But soon it was the common country talk 
That he and I were courting. 

After that 
Some of his sayings and his doings still 
Seem'd foolish, but I used to laugh and say, 
" Wait till we marry ! I shall make him change !" 
And it was pleasant walking after dark, 
In summer, wandering up and down the lanes, 
And heark'ning to his talk ; and pleasant, too, 
In winter, to sit cuddling by the fire, 
And whispering to the quiet firelight sound 
And the slow ticking of the clock. Ere long, 
I grew to care for many things he loved. 
He knew the names of trees, and birds, and flowers, 



106 LONDON TOEMS. 



Their races and their seasons ; named the stars, 
Their comings and their goings ; and could tell 
Strange truths about the manners of the clouds. 
Set him before a hedgerow in a lane, 
And he was happy all alone for hours. 
The woods and fields were full of joy to him, 
And wonders, and line meanings ever new. 
How, at the bottom of the wayside well, 
The foul toad lies and purifies the drink ; 
How twice a year red robin sings a song, 
Once when the orchis blows its bells in spring, 
Once when the gold is on the slanted sheaves ; 
How late at night the common nightingale 
Comes in the season of the barley-sowing, 
Silently builds her nest among the boughs, 
And then sings out just as the roses blow, 
And it is sweet and pleasant in the moon. 
Why, half his courtship lay in talk like that, 
And, oh ! the way he talk'd fill'd high my heart 
With pleasure ; but, o' quiet winter nights, 
With wild bright eyes and voice that broke for joy, 
He often read aloud from books of songs ; ' 
One I remember, that I liked the best, 
A book of pictures and of love-tales, call'd 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 107 

" The Seasons." I was young, and did not think : 

I only felt 'twas fine. Yet now and then 

I noticed more, and took a sober fit, 

And tried to make him tidy in his clothes, 

And could not, though I tried ; and used to sigh 

When mother mutter'd hints, as mothers will, 

That he should work more hard and look ahead, 

And save to furnish out a house for me. . . . 

For Teddy smiled, poor lad, and work'd more hard, 

But save . . . not he ! Instead of laying by, 

Making a nest to rear the young ones in, 

He spent his hard-won cash in buying books, — 

Much dusty lumber, torn and black and old, 

Long sheets of ballads, bundles of old rhyme, — 

And read them, one by one, at home o' nights, 

Or out aloud to me, or at the plough. 

I chid at first, but quickly held my tongue, 

Because he look'd so grieved ; and once he said, 

With broken voice and dew-light in his eyes, 

" Lass, I mi a puzzle to myself and you, 

But take away the books, and I should die ! " 

His back went bare for books, his stomach starved 

To buy them, — nay, he pawned his jacket once, 

To get a dreary string of solemn stuff 



IOS LONDON POEMS. 



All about Eve and Adam. More and more 
He slacken d at his toil ; and soon the lad, 
Who turn'd the cleanest furrow, when he pleased, 
Of all the ploughmen, let his work go spoil, 
And fairly led an idle thriftless life 
In the green woods and on the river side. 

And then I found that he himself made verse 
In secret, — verse about the birds and flowers, 
Songs about lovers, rhymes about the stars, 
Tales of queer doings in the village here, — ■ 
All writ on scraps of paper out-o'-doors, 
And hidden in an old tin coffee-pot 
Where he had kept his cash. The first I heard 
Was just a song all about him and me, 
And cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing; 
He read it to me, blushing like a girl, 
And I was pleased, and laugh'd, and thought it fine, 
And wonder'd where he learn'd to make the words 
Jingle so sweetly. Then he read me more, 
Some that I liked, some that I fancied poor ; 
And, last of all, one morn in harvest-time, 
When all the men were working in the fields, 
And he was nearly ragged, out it came — 



EDWARD CROWHURST. IO9 

"They're reaping corn, and corn brings gold, my lass 
But I will reap gold, too, and fame beside, — 
I 'm going to print a Book ! " 

I thought him mad ! 
The words seem'd dreadful — such a fool was I ; 
And I was puzzled more when he explain' d : 
That he had sent some verses by the post 
To a rich man who lived by selling songs 
Yonder in London city; that for months 
No answer came, and Teddy strain'd his eyes 
Into the clouds for comfort ; that at last 
There came a letter full of wondrous praise 
From the great man in London, offering 
Poor Teddy, if he sent him verse enough 
To make a pretty little printed book, 
To value it in money. Till I die, 
I '11 ne'er forget the light on Teddys face — ■ 
The light, the glory, and the wonder there : 
He laugh'd, and read the letter out aloud, 
He leapt and laugh'd and kiss'd me o'er and o'er, 
And then he read the letter o'er again, 
And then turn'd pale, and sank into a chair, 
And hid his bright face in his hands, and cried. 



LONDON POEMS. 



Bewilder'd though I was, my heart was glad 
To see his happy looks, and pleased beside 
That fine folk call'd him clever. I said nought 
To mother — for I knew her ways too well — 
But waited. Soon came other wondrous news : 
The scraps of verse had all been copied out 
On fine white sheets, written in Teddy's hand, 
Big, round, and clear, like print; and word had come 
That they were read and praised by other folk, 
Friends of the man in London. Last of all, 
One night, when I was ironing the clothes, 
And mother knitting sat beside the fire, 
In Teddy came — as bright and fresh and gay 
As a cock starling hopping from the nest 
On May-day ; and with laughing eyes he cried, 
"Well, mother, when are Bess and I to wed?" 
" Wed % " mother snapt, as sour as buttermilk, 
"Wed? when the birds swim, and the fishes fly, 
And the green trees grow bread and cheese and 

butter 
For lazy loons that lie beneath and yawn ! " 
Then Teddy laugh'd aloud, and when I frown'd 
And shook my head to warn him, laugh'd the more; 
And, drawing out his leathern ploughman's pouchy 



EDWARD CROWHURST, III 

u See, mother, see ! " he cried, — and in her lap 
Pour'd thirty golden guineas ! 

At the first, 
I scream'd, and mother look'd afraid to touch 
The glittering gold, — and plain enough she said 
The gold, she guess'd, was scarcely honest gain ; 
Then Teddy told her all about his book, 
And how those golden guineas were the price 
The great rich man in London put upon ; t. 
She shook her head the more ; and when he read 
The great man's letter, with its words of praise, 
Look'd puzzled most of all ; and in a dream, 
Feeling the gold with her thin hand, she sat, 
While Teddy, proud dew sparkling in his eyes, 
Show'd me in print the little song he made 
Of cuddling in the kitchen while 'twas snowing, — 
"And, Bess," he cried, "the gold will stock a house, 
But little 'tis I care about the gold : 
This bit of printed verse is sweeter far 
Than all the shining wealth of all the world ! " 
And lifted up the paper to his mouth 
And kiss'd the print, then held it out at length 
To look upon 't with sparkling, happy c 



112 LONDON POEMS. 



And folded it and put it in his pouch, 

As tenderly and carefully, I swear, 

As if it were a note upon a bank 

For wealth untold. Why linger o'er the tale ? — 

Though now my poor old man is weak and ill, 

Sweet is the telling of his happy time. 

The money stock'd a house, and in a month 

We two were man and wife. 

Teddy was proud 
And happy, — busy finishing the book 
That was his heart's delight ; and as for me, 
My thoughts were merry as a running brook, 
For Teddy seem'd a wise man after all ; 
And it w r as spring-time, and our little home 
Was hung with white clematis, porch and wall, 
And wall-flower, candituft, and London pride, 
All shining round a lilac bush in bloom, 
Sweeten'd the little square of garden ground ; 
And cozy as a finch's mossy nest 
Was all within : the little sleeping-room 
And red-tiled kitchen ; and, made snug and fine 
By chairs and tables cut of bran-new deal, 
The little parlour, — on the mantel-piece 



EDWARD CROWHURST. II3 

Field-flowers and ferns and bird's-egg necklaces, 
Two pretty pictures pasted on the walls, 
(The portraits of one Milton and one Burns,) 
And, in the corner Teddy loved the best, 
Three shelves to keep the old, black, thumb-mark'd 
books. 

And if my heart had fever, lest the life 
Begun so well was over-bright to last, 
Teddy could cheer me ; for he placed his arm 
Around me, looking serious in his joy, 
When we were wed three days ; and " Bess," he said, 
" The Lord above is very kind to rne ; 
For He has given me this sweet place and you, 
Adding the bliss of seeing soon in print 
The verse I love so much." Then, kissing me, 
" I have been thinking of it all/' he said, 
" Holpen a bit by lives of other folk, 
Which I have read. Now, many men like me 
Grow light o' head and let their labour go ; 
But men can't live by writing verses, Bess." 
" Nay, nay/' cried I, " 'twere pity if they could, 
For eveiy man would try the easier task, 
And who would reap the fields or grind the corn?* 

H 



114 LONDON POEMS. 



And Teddy smiling, said, " Tis so ! 'tis so ! 
Pride shall not puff my wits, but all the day 
I will toil happily in the fields I love ; 
And in the pleasant evenings 'twill be fine 
To wander forth and see the world with you, 
Or read out poems in the parlour here, 
Or take a pen and write, for ease o' heart, 
Not praise, not money." I was glad tenfold, — 
Put all my fears aside, and trusted him, — 
And well he kept his word. 

Yet ill at ease, 
Restless and eager, Teddy waited on, 
Until the night a monster parcel came 
From London : twelve brown volumes, all the same, 
Wide-printed, thin, and on the foremost page, 
" Poems by Edward Crowhurst, Labourer." 
The happiest hour my Teddy ever knew ! 
He turn'd the volumes o'er, examined each, 
Counted the sheets, counted the printed leaves, 
Stared at his name in print, held out the page 
At arm's length, feasting with his mouth and eyes. 
I wonder' d at his joy, yet, spite o' me, 
I shared it 'Twas so catching. The old tale ! 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 115 

A little tiling could make my Teddy's heart 

Gay as a bunch of roses, while a great 

Went by unheeded like a cannon-ball. 

The glowworm is a little common grub, 

Yet what a pretty gleam it often sheds ; 

And that same poor, small, common-looking book, 

Set on our table, kept around its leaves 

A light like sunshine. 

When his joy grew cool, 
Teddy took up a book to read it through ; 
And first he show'd me, next the foremost page, 
A bit of writing called the "Author's Life," 
Made up of simple things my man had told — 
How he was but a lowly labourer, 
And how the green fields work'd upon his heart 
To write about the pretty things he saw — 
All put together by a clever man 
In London. For a time he sat and read 
In silence, looking happy with his eyes ; 
But suddenly he started up and groan'd, 
Looking as black as bog-mud, while he flung 
The book upon the table ; and I gript 
His arm, and ask'd what ail'd him. " Bess," he said. 



Il6 LONDON POEMS. 



" The joy o' this has all gone sudden sour, 

All through the cruel meddling of a fool : 

The story of my life is true enough, 

Despite the fine-flown things the teller sticks 

Around it — peacock's feathers stuck around 

The nest of some plain song-bird ; but the end 

Is like the garlic-flower, — looks fine at first, 

But stinks on peeping nearer. Bess, my lass, 

I never begg'd a penny in my life, 

I sought the help of no man, but could work. 

What then 1 what then 1 O Bess, 'tis hard, 'tis hard ! 

They make me go a-begging, book in hand, 

As if I were a gipsy of the lanes 

Whistling for coppers at an alehouse door !" 

I, too, was hurt, but tried to comfort him ; 
'Twas kindly meant, at least, I thought and said; 
But Teddy clench'd his teeth, and sat him down, 
And wrote, not rudely, but as if in grief, 
To him in London. Till the answer came, 
The printed poems cheer'd him, though the book 
Had lost a scent that ne'er would come again ; 
And when the answer came, 'twas like the words 
A mother murmurs to a silly child — 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 117 

A smiling, pitying, quiet kind of tone, 
That made him angrier than violent speech ; 
And at the end a melancholy hint 
About ingratitude. Teddy must trust 
In those who had his fortune most at heart, 
Nor rashly turn his friends to enemies, 
Nor meddle with the kindly schemes of those 
Who knew the great world better far than he. 
Oh, Teddy's eyes were dim with bitter dew ! 
" Begging is begging, and I never begg'd ! 
Shame on me if I ever take their gold !" 
I coax'd him to be silent ; and though soon 
The bitter mood wore off, his gladness lost 
The look of happy pride it wore of old. 

'Twas happy, happy, in the little home, 
And summer round about on wood and field. 
And summer on the bit of garden ground. 
But soon came news, like whiffs of colour'd smoke, 
Blown to us thickly on the idle wind, 
And smelling of the city. For the land 
Was crying Teddy's praises ! Every morn 
Came papers full of things about the Book, 
And letters full of cheer from distant folk ; 



IlS LONDON POEMS. 



And Teddy toil'd away, and tried his best 

To keep his glad heart humble. Then, one day, 

A smirking gentleman, with inky thumbs, 

Call'd, chatted, pried with little fox's eyes 

This way and that, and when he went away 

He wrote a heap of lying scribble, styled 

" A Summer Morning with the Labourer Lard!" 

Then others came : some, mild young gentlemen, 

Who chirp Yi, and blush'd, and simper'd, and were 

gone ; 
Some, sallow ladies wearing spectacles, 
And pale young misses, rolling languid eyes, 
And pecking at the words my Teddy spake 
Like sparrows picking seed ; and, once or twice, 
Fine merry gentlemen who talk'd no stuff, 
But chatted sensibly of common things, 
And made us feel at home. Ay, not a day 
But Teddy must be sent for, from the fields, 
To meet with fme-clad strangers from afar. 
The village folk began to open eyes 
And 'wonder, but were only more afraid 
Of Teddy, gave him hard suspicious looks, 
And shunn'd him out-o'-doors. Yet how they throng'd, 
Buzzing like humble bees at swarming time, 



EDWARD CROWKURST. 119 

That mom the oil'd and scented gentleman 

(For such we thought him) brought a little note 

From Lord Fitztalbot of Fitztalbot Tower, 

Yonder across the moorland. 'Twas a line 

Bidding my Teddy to the Tower, and he 

Who brought it was the footman of my lord. 

Well, Teddy went, was many hours away, 

And then return'd with cat's-claws round his lips. 

" See ! " Teddy cried, and flung a little purse 

Of money in my lap ; and I, amazed, . 

Counted ten golden guineas in my palm, 

Then gazed at Teddy, saw how pale he was, 

And ask'd what ail'd him. " 'Tis the money, lass," 

He answer' d, groaning deep. " He talk'd, and 

seem'd 
Right kindly ; ask'd about my home, and you ; 
Spoke of the poems, smiled, and bow'd farewell ; 
And, dropping that same money in my hat, 
Bade me go dine below. I burn'd like fire, 
Felt choking, yet was fearful to offend, 
And took the money, as I might have took 
A blazing cinder, bow'd, and came away. 
O Lord ! O Lord ! .this comes of yonder loon, 
'Who sent the book a-begging !" Then he talk'd — 



LONDON POEMS. 



How fiercely and how w T ildly, clenching hands : 

" Was not a poet better than a lord ? 

Why should the cruel people use him so 1 

Why would the world not leave his home in peace?" 

And last, he vow'd to send the money back. 

But I, though shamed and troubled, thought him 

wrong, 
And vow'd my lord was kind, and meant us well, 
And won him o'er at last to keep the purse. 
And ah ! we found it useful very soon, 
When I lay in, and had a dreadful time, 
And brought our girl. Then Teddy put aside 
All grief and anger ; thought of us alone ; 
Forgot, or nearly, all the praise and blame 
Of loveless strangers ; and was proud and glad, 
Making fond rhymes about the babe and me. 

Ah ! had the folk but let my man alone, 
All would be happy now. He loved his work, 
Because it kept him in the fields ; he loved 
The babe and me ; and all he needed more, 
To keep his heart content, was pen and ink, 
And now and then a book. And as for praise, 
He needed it no more than singing birds ; 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 121 

And as for money, why, he wanted none ; 
And as for prying strangers in the house, 
They brought a clumsy painful sense of pride 
That made him restless. He was ever shy 
Of company — he loved to dream alone — 
And the poor life that he had known so long 
Was just the kind of life he suited best. 
He look'd a fine straight man in homespun gear, 
But ne'er seem'd easy in his Sunday coat. 

What should his fine friends do at last, but write, 
Bidding my man to London,— there to meet 
A flock o' gentlefolk, who spent their days 
In making books ! — Though here we dwell so near, 
That northward, far away, you see the sky 
Black with the smoky breathing of the city, 
We ne'er had wander'd far away from home, 
Save once or twice, five miles to westward yonder, 
To Kersey Fair. Well, Teddy fix'd to go ; 
And seeing him full bent, I held my tongue. 
And off he set, one day, in Sunday black, 
A hazel staff over his shoulder flung, 
His bundle swinging, — and was sped by train 
To London town. Two weeks he stay'd away ; 



LONDON" POEMS. 



And, when he came from London, he was changed. 

His eyes look'd wild, his cheek was pale, his step 

Unsteady ; when he enter'd, I could smell 

Drink in his breath. Full pain'd, and sick at heart, 

I questional him ; but he was petulant, 

And snapt me short ; and when I brought the child, 

He push'd her from him. Next day, when he rose, 

His face was pallid ; but his kindly smile 

Came back upon it. Ere the day was out, 

He told me of his doings, of the men 

And places he had seen, and when, and how. 

He had been dull in dwellings of the rich, 

Had felt ashamed in great grand drawing-rooms, 

And angry that the kindly people smiled 

As if in pity; and the time, he said, 

Would have gone drearily, had he lack'd the cheer 

He chanced to find among some jovial folk 

Who lived by making books. Full plain I saw 

That something had gone wrong. His ways were 

strange, 
He did not seem contented in his home, 
He scarcely glinted at the poor old books 
He loved so dearly. In a little time, 
Teddy grew more himself, at home, p.-fickf, 



EDWARD CROWIIURST. 123 

And though, from that day forward, he began 
To take a glass and smoke a pipe at night, 
I scarcely noticed. Thus the year wore on ; 
And still the papers praised him far away, 
And still the letters came from distant folk. 

And Teddy had made friends : folk who could talk 
About the things he loved, and flatter him, 
Ay, laugh aloud to see him drink his glass, 
And clap his back, and shake him by the hand, 
How wild soe'er he talk'd. For by degrees 
His tongue grew freer, he was more at ease 
With strangers. Oft he spent the evening hours 
With merry-makers in the public-house, 
And totter'd home with staring, dazzled eyes. 
The country people liked him better now, 
And loved to coax him out to drink at night, 
And, gaping, heark'd to the strange things he said. 
Ah, then my fear grew heavy, though his heart 
Was kindly still, his head still clear and wise, 
And he went wastering only now and then. 

But soon his ways grew better, for his time 
Was spent in finishing another book. 



124 LONDON POEMS. 



¥et then I found him changed in other things ; 
For once or twice when money as before 
Was sent or given him, he only laugh'd, 
And took it, not in anger. And, be sure, 
Money grew needful in the little home — 
Another babe was coming. Babe and book 
Were born together, but the first was born 
Quiet and breathless. ; Twould be idle talk 
To speak about the book. What came of that, 
Was much the same as what had come before : 
The papers praised it over all the land, 
But just a shade more coolly; strange folk wrote, 
But not so oft. Yet Teddy was in glee, 
For this time fifty golden guineas came 
From the rich man in London. 

Once again, 
They coax'd him up to London \ once again, 
Home came he changed, — with wilder words of wit, 
And sharper sayings, on his tongue. He toil'd 
Even less than ever : nay, his idle friends, 
Who loved to drain the bottle at his side, 
Took up his time full sorely. We began 
To want and pinch : more money was subscribed, 



EDWARD CROWHURST. I25 

And taken : — till at last my man grew sick 
Of working in the open fields at all. 

And just as work grew hardest to his mind, 
The Lord Fitztalbot pass'd him on the road, 
And turned his head away. A change had come, 
As dreadful as the change within himself. 
The papers wrote the praise of newer men, 
The strange folk sent him letters scarce at all; 
And when he spake about another book, 
The man in London wrote a hasty " No !" 
And said the work had little chance to sell. 
Those words were like a sunstroke. Wild and scared, 
My Teddy stared at London— all his dreams 
Came back upon him — and with bitter tongue 
He mock'd and threatened. 'Twas of no avail ! 
His fine-day friends like swallows wing'd away, 
The summer being o'er ; the country folk 
Began to knit their foreheads as of old, 
Save one or two renown' d as ne'er-do-wells ; 
And, mad with pride, bitten with shame and fearj 
Teddy drank deeper at the public-house. 

Teddy to blame ? Teddy to blame J Ah, nay I 



126 LONDON POEMS. 

The blame be theirs who broke his simple pride 
With money, beggar d him against his will. 
The blame be theirs who flatter' d him from home, 
And led him out to make his humble ways 
An idle show. The blame be theirs who smiled 
Whene'er he play'd a wrong and foolish part, 
Because he had skill to write a bit of verse. 
The blame be theirs who spoil'd him like a child, 
And, when the newness of his face was gone, 
Turn'd from him scornfully and smiled elsewhere. 
Teddy to blame ! — a silly, ignorant man, 
Not learn'd, not wise, not cunning in the world ! 

But hearken how I changed him yet once more, 
One day when he was sick and ill with pain. 
I spake of all our early courting days, 
Full low and tender, of the happy time 
When I brought forth our girl, and of the words 
He spake when we were happy ; last of all, 
" Teddy," I said, " let people be unkind, 
The whole world hard, you cannot heal your pain 
Wastering, idling ; think of merrier days, 
Of me, and of our girl, and drink no more." 
He gazed at me full long, his bosom rose 



EDWARD CROWKURST. 12*J 

And flutter'd, and he held my hand in his, 
And shivering, moaning, sank into a chair; 
And, looking at the bookshelf at his side, 
And at the common-looking thumb-mark' d books, 
He promised, promised, with his poor cheeks wet, 
And his voice broken, and his lips set firm. 

True Heart, he kept his word. The public-house 
Knew him no longer • in the fields he toiFd 
Lonely once more ; and in the evenings 
Read books and wrote, — and all he wrote, I know, 
Was sad, sad, sad. Bravely he work'd all day, 
But not so cheerfully. And no man cared 
To brighten him with goodly words. His face 
Was stale with gentlefolk, his heart too proud 
To mix with coarse, low men. Oft in the fields 
They saw him turn his poor eyes Londonwards, 
And sigh ; but he was silent of the pain 
That grew upon him. Slowly he became 
The sadden'd picture of his former self : 
He stood at ploughtail looking at the clouds, 
He watch' d the ways of birds and trees and flowers ; 
But all the little things he learn'd and loved 
Had ta'en a sadder meaning. Oftentimes, 



128 LONDON POEMS. 



In spite of all he did to hide his heart, 
I saw he would have been a happy man 
If any one had praised him as of old ; 
But he was never sent for from the fields, 
No strangers wrote to cheer him, and he seem'd 
All, all, forgotten. Still, as true as steel, 
He held his promise to our girl and me, 
Though oft, I know, the dreadful longing came 
To fly to drink for comfort. Then, one night, 
I heard a stirring in the dark : our girl 
Crept close to me, and whispered in mine ear — 
" Hark ! father 's crying !" 

O 'tis terrible 
To hear a strong man weep ! I could not bear 
To find him grieving so, but crept unto him, 
And put my arms about him, on his neck 
Weeping, " O Teddy, Teddy, do not so ! 
Cheer up, for you will kill me if you cry. 
What do you long for 1 Why are you so sad V y 
And I could feel him crush his hot tears down, 
And shake through every limb. " O lass !" he cried, 
" I cannot give a name to what I want ; 
I cannot tell you why I grow so sad ; 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 129 

But I have lost the pleasure and the peace 
The verses brought me. I am sick and changed,— 
I think too much of other men, — I seem 
Despised and useless. If I did not feel 
You loved me so, and were so kind and true, 
When all the world is cruel, I should fall 
And wither. All my strength is gone away, 
And I am broken !" 

'Twas but little cheer 
That I could give him : that was grief too deep 
For foolish me to understand or cure. 
I made the little parlour bright o' nights, 
Coax'd him to read aloud the books he loved, 
And often he was like himself again, 
Singing for ease o' heart ; and now and then, 
A poem printed in a newspaper, 
Or something kind from people in the world, 
Help'd me a little. So the time wore on ; — 
Till suddenly, one night in winter time, 
I saw him change. Home came he white and pale, 
Shivering, trembling, looking wild and strange, 
Yet speaking quietly. " My head feels queer — 
It aches a bit ! " he said \ and the next day 



130 LONDON POEMS. 



He could not rise from bed. Quiet he lay, 
But now and then I saw him raise his hand 
And hold his forehead. In the afternoon, 
He fell to troubled sleep, and, when he woke, 
He did not seem to know me. Full of fear, 
I sent for Doctor Barth. When Doctor came, 
He found poor Teddy tossing on his bed, 
Moaning and muttering and clenching teeth, 
And Doctor said, " The ill is on the brain — 
Has he been troubled lately?" and I cried, 
" Ay, much, much troubled ! He has fretted sore 
For many months ! " 

'Twas sad, 'twas sad, to see 
My strong man suffer on his dull sick-bed, 
Not knowing me, but crying out of things 
That haunted him. I will not weary you, 
By telling how the Doctor brought him round, 
And how at last he rose from bed, the ghost 
Of his old self, and something gone away 
That never would return. Then it was plain 
That he could work no more : the Light had fled, . 
Which keeps a man a man despite the world 
And all its cruel change. To fright the wolf, 



EDWARD CROWHURST. I3I 

I took in washing at the cottage here ; 
And people sent us money now and then, 
And pitying letters reach'd us from the world, 
Too late ! too late ! 

Thank the good God above, 
Who made me strong and willing, I could keep 
The little house above us, though 'twas dear, 
And ah ! I work'd more hard because I knew 
Poor Teddy's heart would break outright elsewhere. 
Yet Teddy hardly seem'd to comprehend 
All that had happen'd. Though he knew me well, 
And spake full sensibly of many things, 
He lack'd the power to speak of one thing long. 
Sometimes he was as merry as a bird, 
Singing wild songs he learn'd by heart when young; 
Sometimes he wish'd to wander out a-field, 
But easy 'twas to lead his wits away 
To other things. And he was changeful ever, 
Now laughing and now crying; and at times 
He wrote strange notes t to poets that were dead, 
And named himself by all their names in turn, 
Still making verse, which I had sense to see 
"Was wild, and strange, and wrong — not like the verse 



LONDON POEMS. 



He made of old. One day for hours he sat. 

Looking upon the bit of garden ground, 

And smiling. When I spoke, he look'd and laugh'd. 

" Surely you know me, Teddy?" I exclaimed ; 

And up he raised his head, with shrill thin voice 

Saying, " Yes, you are Queen Elizabeth, 

And I am Shakespeare;" and again he smiled 

Craftily to himself; but when I hung 

Around his neck, and wept, and ask'd again, 

He turn'd upon me with so pale a look, 

So wan, so sharp, so full of agony, 

'Twas clear the cloud was lifted for a moment, 

'Twas clear he knew that he was Teddy Crowhurst, 

And that the light of life had gone away. 

And oft, in sunny weather, he and I 
Had walks in quiet places, — in the lanes, 
And in the woods, and by the river side ; 
And he was happy, prying as of old 
In little mossy nests, or plucking flowers, 
Or dropping pebbles at the water-brim, 
To make the speckled minnows start and fly 
In little gleams of light. Ne'er had he been 
More cunning in the ways and looks of things, 



EDWARD CROWHURST. I33 

Though memory fail'd him when he tried for names. 

The sable streaks upon the arum-flower 

Were strange to him as ever ; a lark singing 

Made his eyes misty as it used to do ; 

The shining sun, the waving of green boughs, 

The rippling of the river down the dell, 

Were still true pleasure. All the seasons brought 

Something to charm him. Staring on the snow, 

Or making great snow-houses like a boy, 

He was as busy when the boughs were bare, 

As carrying home a bough of scented May 

Or bunch of yellow lilies from the pond. 

What had been pleasure in his younger days 

Came back to keep him quiet in the world. 

He gave much love to trees and birds and flowers, 

And, when the mighty world was all unkind, 

The little, gentle, speechless things were true. 

True Heart, I never thought that he could bear 
To last so long ; but ten slow years have fled 
Since the first book that brought the trouble and pain 
Was printed, — and within the parlour there 
Teddy is sitting, busy as a bee. 
Doing ? He dreams the world that knows him not 



134 LONDON POEMS. 



Rings with his praises, and for many an hour 
Sits busy with the verse of later years, 
Marks, copies, and arranges it with care, 
To go to some great printer that he thinks 
Is waiting ; and from time to time he eyes 
The books they printed, numbering the lines, 
Counting the pages. Sometimes he is Burns, 
Sometimes John Milton, sometimes other men, 
And sometimes — always looking saddest then — 
Knows he is Teddy Crowhurst. Thin he is, 
And worn, and feeble, — wearing slowly down 
Like snowdrift ; and at times, when Memory 
Comes for a moment like a mirror flash'd 
Into his eyes, he does not groan and weep, 
But droops the more, and seems resign'd and still. 
True Heart, I fear the end is near at last ! 
He sits and hearkens vacantly and dreams, 
He thrills at every knocking at the door, 
Stilly he waits for light that never comes, 
That never will return until the end. 
And oft at evening, when my work is done, 
And the dark gathers, and he holds my hand, 
The waiting grows intenser, and becomes 
The sense o' life itself. Take Teddy hence ! 



EDWARD CROWHURST. 135 

Show me the man will draw my hand away ! 
I am a quiet comfort to his pain ; 
For though his thoughts be far away from here, 
I know he feels my hand ; and ah ! the touch 
Just keeps his heart from breaking. 'Tis my joy 
To work where I can watch him through the day. 
And quiet him, and see he wants for nought. 
He loves to sit among his books and flowers, 
And wears away with little pain, and feels 
The quiet parlour is a pleasant place ; • 
And there — God bless him ! — in a happy time 
Teddy will feel the darkness pass away, 
And smile farewell upon his wife and girl, 
And Light that he has lost will come again 
To shine upon him as he goes to sleep. 



VII. 

ARTIST AND MODEL: 

X Hobe Poem. 



The scorn of the nations is bitter 
But the touch of a hand is warm. 



ARTIST AND MODEL. 

TS it not pleasant to wander 

In town on Saturday night, 
While people go hither and thither, 

And shops shed cheerful light 1 
And, arm in arm, while our shadows 

Chase us along the panes, 
Are we not quite as cozy 

As down among country lanes ? 



Nobody knows us, heeds us, 

Nobody hears or sees, 
And the shop-lights gleam more gladly 

Than the moon on hedges and trees ; 



I4O LONDON POEMS. 



And people coming and going, 
All upon ends of their own, 

Though they work a spell on the spirit, 
Make it more finely alone. 



The sound seems harmless and pleasant 

As the murmur of brook and wind ; 
The shops with the fruit and the pictures 

Have sweetness to suit my mind ; 
And nobody knows us, heeds us, 

And our loving none reproves, — 
7, the poor figure-painter ! 

You 9 the lady he loves ! 



And what if the world should scorn you, 

For now and again, as you do, 
Assuming a country kirtle, 

And bonnet of straw thereto. 
Or the robe of a vestal virgin, 

Or a nun's gray gabardine, 
And keeping a brother and sister 

By standing and looking divine ? 



ARTIST AND MODEL. 141 

And what if the world, moreover, 

Should silently pass me by, 
Because, at the dawn of the struggle, 

I labour some stories high ! 
Why, there 's comfort in waiting, working, 

And feeling one's heart beat right, — 
And rambling alone, love-making, 

In London on Saturday night. 



For when, with a blush Titianic, 

You peep'd in that lodging of mine, 
Did I not praise the good angels 

For sending a model so fine ? 
When I was filFd with the pureness 

You brought to the lonely abode, 
Did I not learn to love you 1 

And — did Love not lighten the load? 



And haply, indeed, little darling, 

While I yearn' d and plotted and plann'd, 

And you watch'd me in love and in yearning, 
Your heart did not quite understand 



142 LONDON POEMS. 



All the wonder and aspiration 
You meant by your loveliness, 

All the faith in the frantic endeavour 
Your beautiful face could express ! 



For your love and your beauty have thriven 

On things of a low degree, 
And you do not comprehend clearly 

The drift of a dreamer like me ; 
And perchance, when you look'd so divinely, 



You meant, and meant only, to say : 
" How sad that he dwells in a garret ! 
And lives on so little a day!" 



What of that? If your sweetness and beauty, 

And the love that is part of thee, 
Were mirror'd in wilder visions, 

And express'd much more to me, 
Did the beautiful face, my darling, 

Need subtler, loftier lore? — 
Nay, beauty is all our wisdom, — 

We painters demand no more. 



ARTIST AND MODEL. I43 

Indeed, I had been no painter, 

And never could hope to rise, 
Had I lack'd the power of creating 

The meanings for your sweet eyes ; 
And what you were really thinking 

Scarcely imported, in sooth, — 
Since the truth we artists fail for, 

Is the truth that looks the truth. 



Your beautiful face was before me, 

Set in its golden hair ; 
And the wonder and love and yearning 

Were shining sublimely there ! 
And your eyes said — "Work for glory! 

Up, up, where the angels call !" 
And I understood, and I laboured, 

And I love the face for it all ! 



I am talking, you think, so strangely! 

And you watch with wondering eyes !- 
Could I utter one half of the yearning 

Your face, even now, implies ! 



T44 LONDON POEMS. 



But the yearning will not be utter' d, 
And never, ah ! never can be, 

Till the work of the world is over, 
And we see as immortals see. 



Yet bless thee for ever and ever, 

For keeping me humble and true, 
And would that mine Art could utter 

The wisdom I find in you. 
Enough to labour and labour, 

And to feel one's heart beat right, 
And to wander unknown, love-making, 

In London on Saturday night ! 



You think : " How dearly I love him ! 

How dearly he loves me ! 
How sweet to live on, and love him. 

With children at my knee ! 
With the useless labour over, 

And comfort and leisure won, 
And clever people praising 

The work that he has done !" 



ARTIST AND MODEL. I45 

I think : " How dearly I love her ! 

How dearly she loves me ! 
Yet the beauty the heart would utter 

Endeth in agony; 
And life is a climbing^ a seeking 

Of something we never can see ! 
And death is a slumber, a dreaming 

Of something that may not be ! " 



And your face is sweetly troubled, 

Your little hand stirs on mine own. 
For you guess at a hidden meaning, 

Since I speak in so tender a tone ; 
And you rain the yearning upon me 

You brought to my help before. 
And I ask no mightier wisdom, — 

We painters demand no more. 



And we shall live, my darling, 
Together till we grow old, 

And people will buy my pictures, 
And you will gather the gold, 



I46 LONDON POEMS. 

And your loveliness will reward me, 

And sanctify all I do, 
And toiling for Love's sake, darling, 

I may toil for Fame's sake, too. 



Ah, dearest, how much you teach me, 

How much of hope and of light, 
Up yonder, planning and painting, 

And here on Saturday night ; 
And I turn sad eyes no longer 

From the pageant that passes around, 
And the vision no more seems weary, 

And the head may yet be crown'd ! 



And I ask no more from mortals 

Than your beautiful face implies, — 
The beauty the artist beholding 

Interprets and sanctifies. 
Who says that men have fallen, 

That life is wretched and rough ? 
I say, the world is lovely, 

And that loveliness is enough. 



ARTIST AND MODEL. I47 

So my doubting days are ended, 

And the labour of life seems clear; 
And life hums deeply around me, 

Just like the murmur here, 
And quickens the sense of living, 

And shapes me for peace and storm, — 
And dims my eyes with gladness 

When it glides into colour and form ! 



His form and His colour, darling, 

Are all we apprehend, 
Though the meaning that underlies them 

May be utter' d in the end ; 
And I seek to go no deeper 

Than the beauty and wonder there, 
Since the world can look so wondrous, 

And your face can look so fair. 



For ah ! life's stream is bitter, 
When too greedily we drink, 

And I might not be so happy 
If I knew quite all you think ; 



I48 LONDON POEMS. 



And when God takes much, my darling, 
He leaves us the colour and form, — 

The scorn of the nations is bitter, 
But the touch of a hand is warm 



VIII. 
NELL. 

She gazes not at her who hears, 

But, while the gathering - darkness cries, 
Stares at the vacancy through tears, 

That burn upon her glistening eyes, 
Yet do not fall. Her hair falls free 

Around a face grown deathly thin ; 
Her elbow rests upon her knee, 

And in her palms she props her chin ; 
Her voice sounds hollow on the air 

And often, ere her tale is told, 
A groan disturbs her blank despair, 

And leaves a sense of bitter cold. 



NELL. 



"V^OU'RE a kind woman, Nan ! ay, kind and true! 

God will be good to faithful folk like you ! 
The neighbours all look black, and snap me short — 
Well, I shall soon be gone from Camden Court 
You knew my Ned? 

A better, kinder lad never drew breath — 
We loved each other true, though never wed 

In church, like some who took him to his death : 
A lad as gentle as a lamb, but lost 

His senses when he took a drop too much — 
Drink did it all — drink made him mad when cross'd — 

He was a poor man, and they 're hard on such. 
So kind ! so true ! that life should come to this ! 



152 LONDON POEMS. 



Gentle and good ! — the very week before 
The fit came on him, and he went amiss, 
He brought me home, and gave me, with a kiss, 

That muslin gown as hangs behind the door. 

11. 

O Nan ! that night ! that night ! 

When I was sitting in this very chair, 
Watching and waiting in the candle-light, 

And heard his foot come creaking up the stair, 
And turn'd, and saw him standing yonder, white 

And wild, with staring eyes and rumpled hair ! 
And when I caught his arm and call'd, in fright, 

He push'd me, swore, and pass'd 

Back to the door, and lock'd and barr'd it fast ! 
Then dropped down heavy as a lump of lea d, 

Holding his brow, shaking, and growing whiter, 

And — Nan ! — just then the candle-light grew 
brighter, 
And I could see the hands that held his head, 
All red ! all red ! 
What could I do but scream ? He groan'd to hear, 

Jump'd to his feet, and gripp'd me by the wrist ; 

" Be still, or I shall kill thee, Nell ! " he hiss'd. 



NELL. 153 

And I was still for fear. 

" They 're after me — I Ve knifed a man ! " he said. 
"Be still ! — the drink — drink did it — he is dead!" 
And as he said the word, the wind went by 
With a w T histle and cry — 

The room swam round — -the babe unborn seem'd to 
scream out, and die ! 

m. 

Then we grew still, so still. I couldn't weep — - 

All I could do was cling to him and hark — 
And Ned was cold, cold, cold, as if asleep, 
But breathing hard and deep ; 

The candle flicker' d out — the room grew dark — > 
And— Nan ! — although my heart was true and tried,- — 

When all grew cold and dim, 
I shudder' d — not for fear of them outside, 

But just afraid to be alone with him : 
And he was hard, he was — the wind it cried — 
A foot went hollow down the court and died — 
What could I do but clasp his knees and cling % 

And call his name beneath my breath in pain % 
Until he raised his head a-listening, 

And gave a groan, and hid his face again \ 



154 LONDON POEMS. 



" Ned ! Ned ! " I whisper'd — and he moan'd and 

shook — 
But did not heed or look ! 
" Ned ! Ned ! speak, lad ! tell me it is not true ! " 

At that he raised his head and look'd so wild ; 
Then, with a stare that froze my blood, he threw 

His arms around me, sobbing like a child, 
And held me close — and not a word was spoken — 
While I clung tighter to his 'heart and press'd 
him — 
And did not fear him, though my heart was broken — 
But kiss'd his poor stain'd hands, and cried, and 
bless' d him ! 

IV. 

Then, Nan, the dreadful daylight, coming cold 

With sound o' falling rain,— 
When I could see his face, and it look'd old, 

Like the pinch' d face of one as dies in pain ; 
Well, though we heard folk stirring in the sun, 
We never thought to hide away or run, 
Until we heard those voices in the street, 
That hurrying of feet. 

And Ned leap'd up, and knew that they had come. 
" Run, Ned ! " I cried, but he was deaf and dumb ! 



NELL. 155 

" Hide, Ned ! " I scream'd, and held him — " hide 

thee, man ! " 
He stared with bloodshot eyes, and hearken'd, Nan ! 
And all the rest is like a dream — the sound 

Of knocking at the door — 
A rush of men — a struggle on the ground— 

A mist — a tramp — a roar ; 
For when I got my senses back again, 

The room was empty, — and my head went round ! 
The neighbours talk'd and stirr'd about the lane, 

And Seven Dials made a moaning sound ; 
And as I listen'd, lass, it seem'd to me 
Just like the murmur of a great dark sea, 

And Ned a-lying somewhere, stiff and drown' d ! 



God help him ? God will help him ! Ay, no fear ! 

It was the drink, not Ned — he meant no wrong; 
So kind ! so good ! — and I am useless here, 

Now he is lost as loved me true and long. 
Why, just before the last of it, we parted, 
And Ned was calm, though I was broken-hearted ; 
And ah, my heart was broke ! and ah, I cried 
And kiss'd him, — till they took me from his side ; 



I56 LONDON POEMS. 



And though he died thai way, (God bless him !) Ned 
Went through it bravely, calm as any there : 

They 've wrought their fill of spite upon his head, 
And— there 's the hat and clothes he used to wear ! 

VI. 

, . . That night before he died, 

I didn't cry — my heart was hard and dried; 

But when the clocks went " one," I took my shawl 

To cover up my face, and stole away, 
And walk'd along the moonlight streets, where all 

Look'd cold and still and gray, — 
Only the lamps o' London here and there 

Scatter d a dismal gleaming; 
And on I went, and stood in Leicester Square, 

Just like a woman dreaming : 
But just as " three " was sounded close at hand, 

I started and turn'd east, before I knew, — 
Then down Saint Martin's Lane, along the Strand, 

And through the toll-gate, on to Waterloo. 
How I remember all I saw, although 

Twas only like a dream ! — 
The long still lines o' lights, the chilly gleam 

Of moonshine on the deep black stream below] 



157 



While far, far, far away, along the sky 

Streaks soft as silver ran, 
And the pale moon look'd paler up on high, 

And little sounds in far-off streets began ! 
Well, while I stood, and waited, and look'd down, 
And thought how sweet 'twould be to drop and 

drown, 
Some men and lads went by, 

And I turn d round, and gazed, and watch'd 'em 
go, 
Then felt that they were going to see him die, 

And drew my shawl more tight, and follow'd 
slow. 
How clear I feel it still ! 

The streets grew light, but rain began to fall; 
I stopp'd and had some coffee at a stall, 

Because I felt so chill ; 
A cock crew somewhere, and it seem'd a call 

To wake the folk who kill ! 
The man who sold the coffee stared at me ! 
I must have been a sorry sight to see ! 

More people pass'd — a country cart with hay 
Stopp'd close beside the stall, — and two or three 

Talk'd about it I I moaivd, and crept away! 



158 LONDON POEMS. 



VII. 

Ay, nearer, nearer to the dreadful place, 

All in the falling rain, 
I went, and kept my shawl upon my face, 

And felt no grief or pain — 
Only the wet that soak'd me through and through 

Seem'd cold and sweet and pleasant to the touch — 
It made the streets more drear and silent, too, 

And kept away the light I fear'd so much. 
Slow, slow the wet streets fill'd, and all were going, 

Laughing and chatting, the same way, 
And grayer, sadder, lighter, it was growing, 

Though still the rain fell fast and darken'd day! 
Nan ! — every pulse was burning — I could feel 
My heart was made o' steel — 
As, crossing Ludgate Hill, where many stirr'd, 

I saw Saint Paul's great clock and heard it chime, 
And hadn't power to count the strokes I heard, 

But strain d my eyes and saw it was not time ; 
Ah ! then I felt I dared not creep more near, 

But went into a lane off Ludgate Hill, 
And sitting on a doorstep, I could hear 

The people gathering still ! 



NELL. 159 

And still the rain was falling, falling, 

And deadening the hum I heard from there; 
And wet and stiff, I heard the people calling, 

And watch'd the rain-drops glistening down my hair, 
My elbows on my knees, my fingers dead, — 
My shawl thrown off, now none could see, — my head 

Dripping and wild and bare. 
I heard the murmur of a crowd of men, 

And next, a hammering sound I knew full well, 
For something gripp'd me round the heart ! — and then 

There came the solemn tolling of a bell ! 
O Lord ! O Lord ! how could I sit close by 
And neither scream nor cry? 
As if I had been stone, all hard and cold, 

But listening, listening, listening, still and dumb, 
While the folk murmur'd, and the death-bell tolPd, 

And the day brighten'd, and his time had come. . . 
. . . Till — Nan ! — all else was silent, but the knell 
Of the slow bell! 
And I could only wait, and wait, and wait, 

And what I waited for I couldn't tell, — 
At last there came a groaning deep and great — 
Saint Paul's struck " eight " — 

I scream'd, and seem'd to turn to fire, and fell ! 



160 LONDON POEMS. 



VIII. 

God bless him, live or dead ! 

He never meant no wrong, was kind and true — 
They Ve wrought their fill of spite upon his head — 

Why didn't they be kind, and take me too 1 
And there -s the dear old things he used to wear, 
And here 's a lock o J hair ! 
And they're more precious far than gold galore, 

Than all the wealth and gold in London town ! 
He'll never wear the hat and clothes no more, 

And I shall never wear the muslin gown ! 
And Ned ! my Ned ! 

Is fast asleep, and cannot hear me call ; — 
God bless you, Nan, for all you Ve done and said, 

But don't mind me! My heart is broke — that 's all ! 



IX. 

ATTORNEY SNEAK 



Sharp like a tyrant, timid like a slave, 
A little man, with yellow, bloodless cheek ; 

A snappish mingling of the fool and knave, 
Resulting in the hybrid compound — Sneak. 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 

T)UT execution in on Mrs Hart — 

If people will be careless, let them smart : 
Oh, hang her children ! just the common cry ! 
Am I to feed her family 1 Not I. 
I 'm tender-hearted, but I dare be just, — 
I never go beyond the law, I trust ; 
I Ve work'd my way, plotted and starved and plann'd, 
Commenced without a penny in my hand, 
And never howl'd for help, or dealt in sham — 
No 1 I 'm a man of principle, I am. 



What 's that you say 1 Oh, father has been here % 
Of course, you sent him packing? Dear, oh, dear ! 



164 LONDON POEMS. 



When one has work'd his weary way, like me, 

To comfort and respectability, 

Can pay his bills, and save a pound or two, 

And say his prayers on Sunday in a pew, 

Can look the laws of England in the face, 

'Tis hard, 'tis hard, 'tis shame, and 'tis disgrace, 

That one's own father — old and worn and gray — 

Should be the only hindrance in his way. 

Swore, did he J "Very pretty ! Threaten'd 1 Oh ! 

Demanded money? You, of course, said "No?" 

'Tis hard — my life will never be secure — - 

He '11 be my ruin some day, I am sure. 



I don't deny my origin was low — 
All the more credit to myself, you know : 
Mother (I never saw her) was a tramp, 
Father half tramp, half pedlar, and whole scamp, 
Who travell'd over England with a pack, 
And carried me about upon his back, 
Trudging from door to door, to feasts and fairs, 
Cheating the silly women with his wares, 
Stealing the farmers' ducks and hens for food, 
Pilfering odds and ends where'er he could, 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. l6$ 

And resting in a city now and then, 
Till it became too hot, — and off again. 
Beat me 1 No, he knew better. I confess 
He used me with a sort of tenderness ; 
But would have warp'd my nature into sin. 
Had I been weak, for lack of discipline. 
Why, even now, I shudder to the soul, 
To think how oft I ate the food he stole, 
And how I wore upon my back the things 
He won by cheats and lawless bargainings. 
Oh, he had feelings, that I freely say ; 
But, without principle, what good are they ? 
He swindled and he stole on every hand, 
And I was far too young to reprimand ; 
And, for the rest, why, he was circumspect, 
And might have been committed for neglect. 



Ah ! how I managed, under stars so ill, 
To thrive at all, to me is mystery still. 
In spite of father, though, I got along, 
And early learn'd to judge the right from wrong; 
At roadsides, when we stopp'd to rest and feed, 
He gave me lessons how to write and read, 



l66 LONDON POEMS. 



I got a snack of schooling here and there, 
And learn'd to sum by instinct, as it were. 
Then, latterly, when I was seventeen, 
All sorts of evil I had heard and seen ; 
Knew fathers evil ways, bemoan' d my fate, 
Long'd to be wealthy, virtuous, and great ; 
Swore, with the fond ambition of a lad, 
To make good use of what poor gifts I had. 



At last, tired, sick, of wandering up and down, 
Hither I turn'd my thoughts, — to London town ; 
And finally, with little doubt or fear, 
Made up my mind to try my fortune here. 
Well, father stared at first, and shook his head ; 
But when he found I held to what I said, 
He clasp'd me tight, and hugg'd me to his heart, 
And begg'd and pray'd that I would not depart; 
Said I was all for whom he had to care, 
His only joy in trudging here and there; 
Vow'd, if I ever left him, he would die, — 
Then, last of all, of course, began to cry. 
You know how men of his position feel i 
Selfish, at best, even when it is real ! 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 167 

I tried to smooth him over, and, next day, 
I pack'd what things I had, and ran away. 



I need not tell you all my weary fight, 
To get along in life, and do aright — 
How often people, when I sought a place, 
Still push'd my blessed father in my face ; 
Until, at last, when I was almost stark, 
Old Lawyer Hawk made me his under-clerk ; 
How from that moment, by avoiding wrong, 
Possessing principle, I got along ; 
Read for the law, plotted, and dream'd, and plann'd, 
Until — I reach' d the height on which I stand. 



'Twas hard, 'twas hard ! Just as my business grows, 
In father pops his miserable nose, 
Steps in, not sober, in a ragged dress, 
And worn tenfold with want and wickedness ; 
Calls me hard names because I wish'd to rise ; 
Here, in the office, like a baby cries ; 
Smothers my pride with shame and with disgrace, 
Till, red as fire, I coax'd him from the place. 



l68 LONDON POEMS. 



What could I do under so great a blow 1 

I gave him money, tried to make him go; 

But ah ! he meant to rest, I plain could see, 

His ragged legs 'neath my mahogany ! 

No principle ! When I began complaining, 

How he would be my ruin by remaining, 

He turn'd upon me, white and wild, and swore, 

And would have hit me, had I utter'd more. 



" Tommy," he dared to say, " you 've done amiss ; 
I never thought to see you come to this. 
I would have stopp'd you early on the journey, 
If I had ever thought you'd grow attorney, 
Sucking the blood of people here in London ; 
But you have done it, and it can't be undone. 
And, Tommy, I will do my best to see 
You don't at all disgrace yourself and me." 



I rack'd my brains, I moan'd and tore my hair, 
Saw nothing left but ruin and despair ; 
Father at hand, why, all would deem me low : 
w Sneak's father ? humph !" — the business would go. 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 169 

The labour of long years would come to nought ! 

At last I hit upon a happy thought : 

Why should not father, if he pleased to be, 

Be decent and respectable like me ; 

He would be glad and grateful, if a grain 

Of principle were settled in his brain. 

I made the offer, — proud he seem'd and glad, — 

There rose a hope he 'd change to good from bad, 

Though, " Tommy, 'tis a way of getting bread 

I never thought to come upon/' he said ; 

And so I put him in the office here, 

A clerk at five and thirty pounds a year. 



I put it to you, could a man do more i 
I felt no malice, did not close my door, 
But gave the chance to show if he was wise : 
He had the world before him, and could rise. 



Well, for a month or more, he play'd no tricks, 
Writ-drawing, copying, from nine to six, 
Not smart, of course, nor clever, like the rest, 
But trying, it appear'd, to do his best ; 



170 LONDON POEMS. 



But by and by he changed — old fire broke out — 

He snapp'd when seniors order d him about — 

Came late to office, tried to loaf and shirk — 

Would sit for precious hours before his work, 

And scarcely lift a pen, but sleepily stare 

Out through the window at the empty air, 

And watch the sunshine lying in the lane, 

Or the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, 

And look as sad and worn and grieved and strange 

As if he ne'er had had a chance to change; 

Came one day staggering in a drunken fit ; 

Flatly refused one day to serve a writ. 

I talk'd, appeal'd, talk'd of my honest name, 

He stared, turn'd pale, swore loud, and out it came : 

He hated living with that monkey crew, 

Had tried his best and found it would not do ; 

He could not bear, forsooth, to watch the tears 

Of people with the Law about their ears, 

Would rather steal his meals from place to place, 

Than bring the sorrow to a poor man's face — 

In fact, you see, he hated all who pay, 

Or seek their moneys in the honest way ; 

Moreover, he preferr'd a roadside crust, 

To cleanly living with the good and just : 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 171 

Old, wild, and used to roaming up and down, 
He could not bear to stagnate in a town ; 
To stick in a dark office in a street, 
Was downright misery to a man with feet ; 
Serving the law was more than he could bear, 
Give him his pack, his freedom, and fresh air. 



Mark that ! how base, ungrateful, gross, and bad ! 
His want of principle had made him mad. 
I gave him money, sent him off by train, 
And trusted ne'er to see his face again. 



But he came back. Of course. Look'd wan and ill, 
More ragged and disreputable still. 
Despairing, groaning, wretchedest of men, 
I granted him another trial then. 
Still the old story — the same vacant stare 
Out through the window at the empty air, 
Mere watching of the sunshine in the lane, 
And the bluebottles buzzing on the pane, 
Then more of tipsiness and drunken dizziness, 
And rage at things done in the way of business. 



172 LONDON POEMS. 



I saw the very office servants sneer, 

And I determined to be more severe. 

At last, one winter morn, I went to him, 

And found him sitting, melancholy, grim, 

Sprawling like any schoolboy on his seat, 

And scratching drawings on a foolscap sheet : 

Here, an old hag, with half-a-dozen chits, 

Lash'd with a cat-o'-nine tails, labell'd " Writs ; " 

There, a young rascal, ragged as a daw, 

Drinking a cup of poison, labell'd "'Law;" 

Elsewhere, the Devil, looking o'er a pile 

Of old indictments with a crafty smile, 

And sticking Lawyers on an office file ; 

And in a corner, wretchedly devised, 

A shape in black, that kick'd and agonised, 

Strung by a pauper to a gallows great, 

And underneath it written, " Tommie's fate !" 

I touch'd his arm, conducted him aside, 

Produced a bunch of documents, and cried : 

" Now, father, no more nonsense ! You must 

be 
No more a plague and a disgrace to me — 
If you won't work like others, you must quit; 
See, here are two subpoenas, there a writ, 



ATTORNEY SNEAK. 173 

Serve these on Such-a-one and So-and-So. 

Be sharp, — and mind your conduct, or you go." 

He never said a word, but with a glare 

All round him, drew his thin hand through his hair, 

Turn'd white, and took the papers silently, 

Put on his hat, and peep'd again at me. 

Then quietly, not like a man in ire, 

Placed all the precious papers on the fire ! 

And turning quickly, crying with a shout, 

" You, and all documents, be damrtd!" went out. 



He came again ! Ay, after wandering o'er 
The country as of old, he came once more. 
I gave him money, off he went ; and then, 
After a little year, he came again ; 
Ay, came, and came, still ragged, bad, and poor, 
And he will be my ruin, I am sure. 
He tells the same old tale from year to year, 
How to his heart I ever will be dear ; 
Or oft into a fit of passion flies, 
Calls me ungrateful and unkind, — then cries, 
Raves of his tenderness and suffering, 
And mothers too and all that sort of thing ! 



174 LONDON POEMS. 



He haunts me like a goblin pale and grim, 
And — to be candid —I 'm afraid of him ; 
For, ah ! all now is hopeless, to my cost, — 
Through want of principle the man is lost. 



— That ? s Badger, is it ? He must go to Vere, 
The Bank of England clerk. The writ is here. 
Say, for his children's sake, we will relent, 
If he '11 renew at thirty-five per cent. 



BARBARA GRAY. 



A mourning woman, robed in black, 
Stands in the twilight, looking back ; 
Her hand is on her heart, her head 
Bends musingly above the Dead, 
Her face is plain, and pinch'd, and thin, 
But splendour strikes it from within 



BARBARA GRAY. 



" T> ARBARA GRAY ! 

Pause, and remember what the world will say," 
I cried, and turning on the threshold fled, 
When he was breathing on his dying bed ; 

But when, with heart grown bold, 

I cross'd the threshold cold, 
Here lay John Hamerton, and he was dead. 



And all the house of death was chill and dim, 
The dull old housekeeper was looking grim, 
The hall-clock ticking slow, the dismal rain 
Splashing by fits against the window-pane, 
The garden shivering in the twilight dark, 
"beyond, the bare trees of the empty park, 

M 



178 LONDON POEMS. 



And faint gray light upon the great cold bed. 
And I alone ; and he I turn'd from, — dead. 

in. 
Ay, " dwarf" they called this man who sleeping lies j 
No lady shone upon him with her eyes, 
No tender maiden heard his true-love vow, 
And pressed her kisses on the great bold brow. 
What cared John Hamerton? With light, light laugh, 
He halted through the streets upon his staff; 
Halt, lame, not beauteous, yet with winning grace 
And sweetness in his pale and quiet face ; 
Fire, hell's or heaven's, in his eyes of blue ; 
Warm words of love upon his tongue thereto ; 
Could win a woman's Soul with what he said, 
And I am here ; and here he lieth dead. 

IV. 

I would not blush if the bad world saw now 
How by his bed I stoop and kiss his brow ! 
Ay, kiss it, kiss it, o'er and o'er again, 
With all the love that nils my heart and brain. 

v. 
For where was man had stoop'd to me before, 
Though I was maiden still, and girl no more i 
Where was the spirit that had deign' d to prize 



BARBARA GRAY. 



179 



The poor plain features and the envious eyes ? 
What lips had whisper'd warmly in mine ears ] 
When had I known the passion and the tears 1 
Till he I look on sleeping came unto me, 
Found me among the shadows, stoop'd to woo me, 
Seized on the heart that flutter'd withering here, 
Strung it, and wrung it, with new joy and fear, 
Yea, brought the rapturous light, and brought the day, 
Waken'd the dead heart, withering away, 
Put thorns and roses on the unhonour'd head, 
That felt but roses till the roses fled ! 
Who, who, but he crept unto sunless ground, 
Content to prize the faded face he found i 
John Hamerton, I pardon all — sleep sound, my love, 
sleep sound ! 

VI. 

What fool that crawls shall prate of shame and sin % 
Did he not think me fair enough to win % 
Yea, stoop and smile upon my face as none, 
living or dead, save he alone, had done % 
Bring the bright blush unto my cheek, when ne'er 
The full of life and love had mantled there % 
And I am all alone ; and here lies he, — 
The only man that ever smiled on me. 



ISO LONDON POEMS. 



VII. 

Here, in his lonely dwelling-house he lies, 
"Tie light all faded from his winsome eyes : 

"^ne, alone, alone, he slumbers here, 
With wife nor little child to shed a tear ! 
Little, indeed, to him did nature give ; 
Nor was he good and pure as some that live, 
But pinch'd in body, warp'd in limb, 
He hated the bad world that loved not him ! 

VIII. 

Barbara Gray ! 

Pause, and remember how he turn'd away ; 

Think of your wrongs, and of your sorrows. Nay ! 

Woman, think rather of the shame and wrong 

Of pining lonely in the dark so long ; 

Think of the comfort in the grief he brought, 

The revelation in the love he taught. 

Then, Barbara Gray ! 

Blush not, nor heed what the cold world will say ; 

But kiss him, kiss him, o'er and o'er again, 

In passion and in pain, 

With all the love that fills your heart and brain ! 

Yea, kiss him, bless him, pray beside his bed, 

For you have lived, and here your love lies dead. 



XL 
THE BLIND LINNET. 



tI yap edec p! bpav, 

otcj) y opQvTt jj,7]dev 9jv loeiv yXvicti; 

Soph. CEd. Tyr. 



THE BLIND LINNET. 



HHHE sempstress's linnet sings 

At the window opposite me ; — 
It feels the sun on its wings, 

Though it cannot see. 
Can a bird have thoughts 1 May be. 



ii. 

The sempstress is sitting, 

High o'er the humming street, 

The little blind linnet is flitting 
Between the sun and her seat. 



LONDON POEMS. 



All day long 

She stitches wearily there, 
And I know she is not young, 

And I know she is not fair ; 
For I watch her head bent down 

Throughout the dreary day, 
And the thin meek hair o' brown 

Is threaded with silver gray ; 
And now and then, with a start 
At the fluttering of her heart, 

She lifts her eyes to the bird, 
And I see in the dreary place 
The gleam of a thin white face, 

And my heart is stiir'd. 

in. 
Loud and long 
The linnet pipes his song ! 
For he cannot see 

The smoky street all round, 
But loud in the sun sings he, 

Though he hears the murmurous sound ; 
For his poor, blind eyeballs blink, 

While the yellow sunlights fall, 



THE BLIND LINNET. 1 85 

And he thinks (if a bird can think) 

He hears a waterfall, 
Or the broad and beautiful river 

Washing fields of corn, 
Flowing for ever 

Through the woods where he was born ; 
And his voice grows stronger, 

While he thinks that he is there, 
And louder and longer 

Falls his song on the dusky air. 
And oft, in the gloaming still, 

Perhaps (for who can tell ?) 

The musk and the muskatel, 
That grow on the window sill, 

Cheat him with their smell. 



IV. 

But the sempstress can see 

How dark things be ; 

How black through the town 

The stream is flowing ; 
And tears fall down 

Upon her sewing. 



l86 LONDON POEMS. 



So at times she tries, 

When her trouble is stirr'd, 
To close her eyes, 

And be blind like the bird. 
And then, for a minute, 

As sweet things seem, 
As to the linnet 

Piping in his dream ! 
For she feels on her brow 

The sunlight glowing, 
And hears nought now 

But a river flowing — 
A broad and beautiful river, 

Washing fields of corn, 
Flowing for ever 

Through the woods where she was born- 
And a wild bird winging 
Over her head, and singing ! 
And she can smell 
The musk and the muskatel 

That beside her grow, 
And, unaware, 
She murmurs an old air 

That she used to know ! 



XII. 

LONDON, 1864 



LONDON, 1864. 



T "\ THY should the heart seem colder, 

As the song grows stronger and surer 1 
Why should the brain grow darker, 

And the utterance clearer and purer 1 
To lose what the people are gaining 

Seems often bitter as gall, 
Though to sink in the proud endeavour 

Were the bitterest of all. 
I would to God I were lying 

Yonder 'mong mountains blue, 
Smiling in sweet conceptions 

That were dried from my brow like dew, 



190 LONDON POEMS. 



Burning, and aching, and yearning 
To conquer, to sing, and to teach, 

With the brain at white-heat, clutching 
At visions beyond my reach, — 

But with never a feeling or fancy 
I could utter in tuneful speech ! 

ii. 

Yea ! that were richer and sweeter 

Than all that my soul hath found, — 
Than to see and to know, and be able 

To utter the knowledge in sound ; 
For the heart feels colder and harder, 

And a glory hath gone from me. 
And I hate, for I view so clearly, 

So much that I loved to see, 
And the far blue misty mountains 

Are grand as they used to be ! 

in. 

And Art, the avenging angel, 



Comes, with her still, gray eyes, 
Kisses my forehead coldly, 
Whispers to make me wise ; 



LONDON, 1864. 191 



And, too late, comes the revelation, 

After the feast and the play, 
That she works her end, not by giving, 

But cruelly taking away : 
By burning the heart till it shrivels, 

Scorching it dry and deep 
And changing the flower of living 

To a poor dried flower that may keep ! 
What wonder if often and often 

The passion, the wonder dies ; 
And I hate the terrible angel, 

And shrink from her passionless eyes, — 
Who, instead of the rapture and vision, 

I held as the poet's dower — 
Instead of the glory of living, 

The impulse, the splendour, the power — 
Instead of the singing raiment, 

The trumpet proclaiming the day, 
Gives, and so coldly, only 

A pipe whereon to play ! 
While the spirit of boyhood hath perish'd, 

And never again can be, 
And the singing seems so worthless, 

Since the glory hath gone from me,— 



192 LONDON POEMS. 



Though the far blue misty mountains, 
And the earth and the air and the sea, 

And the manifold music and beauty, 
Are grand as they used to be ! 

IV. 

Is there a consolation 

For the joy that comes never again? 
Is there a balm remaining 1 

Is there a refuge from pain ? 
Is there a balm to quiet 

The shame and the grief and the stinging ? 
Only the sweet, strange sadness, 

That is the source of the singing. 

v. 

For the sound of the city is awful, 

As the people pass to and fro, 
And the friendless faces are dreadful, 

As they come, and thrill through us, and go; 
And the ties that bind us to others 

Of our error and weakness are born ; 
And our dear ones ever love dearest 

Those parts of ourselves that we scorn ; 



LONDON, 1864. 193 



And the weariness will not be uttered, 

And the bitterness dare not be said, 
And we hood the proud nature with meanness 

To shut out the sight of our Dead ! 
And what, then, remaineth as solace ? 

Dear ones, or fortune, or fame 1 
Only the sweet singing sadness 

Cometh between us and shame. 

VI. 

And there dawneth a time to the Poet, 

When the bitterness passes away, 
When his heart is humbled in silence, 

And he kneels in the dark to pray ; 
And the prayer is turn'd into music, 

And the music findeth a tongue, 
And Art, the cold angel, seems kinder, 

And comforts the soul she has stung. 
Then the Poet, worn with the struggle, 

Findeth his loss is his gain : 
The sweet singing sadness is stranger, 

Though nought of the glory remain ; 
And the awful sound of the city, 

And the terrible faces around, 



194 LONDON POEMS. 



Take a truer, tenderer meaning, 

And pass into sweetness and sound ; 
The mystery deepens and deepens, 

Strange vanishings gleam from the cloud, 
And the Poet, though often and often 

Stricken, and eyeless, and bow'd, 
Starteth at times from his wonder, 

And sendeth his Soul up aloud ! 

VII, 

Lo ! I stand at the gateway of Honour, 

And see the lights flashing within, 
And I murmur these songs of the city, 

Its sorrow, its joy, and its sin ; 
And the sweetness is heavy upon me, 

Though grown of the past and its wrong ; 
My losses are sure if that sweetness 

Be felt in the soul of the song. 
I murmur these songs of the city, 

And cast them as bread on the sea ; 
And mine eyes are dim with the singing 

That is all in the world to me ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 



De Karlemane et de Rolant, 
Et d'Olivier, et des vassaus, 
Qui moururent & Rainscevaux ! 



I. 

P\EAD was Gerard the fair, the woman-mouth'd, the 

gay, 
Who jested with the foe he slung his sword to slay; 
Dead was the giant Guy, big-hearted, small of brain ; 
Dead was the hunchback Sanche, his red haunch slit 

in twain ; 
Dead was the old hawk Luz, and sleeping by his side 
His twin-sons, Charles the Fleet, and Pierre the 

serpent-eyed ; 



198 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Dead was Antoine, the same who swore to speak no 

word 
Till twice a hundred heads fell by his single sword ; 
Dead was the wise Gerin, who gripp'd both spear and 

pen; 
Sansun was dead, Gereir was dead ! — -dead were the 

mighty men ! 

n. 

Then Roland felt his life return, and stirr'd, and 

cried, 
Felt down if Adalmar lay safe against his side, 
And smiled quietlie, for joy the sword was there, 
With heavy mailed hand push'd back his bloody hair, 
And lying prone upon his back, beheld on high 
The stars like leopard-spots strewn in the deep gray 

sky, 
And turn'd his head, and saw the great hills looming 

dim, 
And in the west the Moon with red and wasting rim ; 
Then sighing deep, swung round his head as in a 

swoon, 
And met the hunchback's eyne, glazed beneath the 

Moon. 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. I99 



Chill was the air, and frosty vapours to and fro, 
Like sheeted shapes, in dim moonshine, crawl'd to 

and fro ; 
And Roland thought, because his wound had made 

him weak, 
The cold shapes breathed alive their breath upon his 

cheek, 
And crawling to his knees, shivering in the cold, 
Loosen'd his helm, and dimly gleaming down it roil'd; 
And slowly his faint eyes distinguished things around, — 
The dark and moveless shapes asleep upon the ground, 
A helmet glittering dim, a sword-hilt twinkling red, 
A white horse quivering beside a warrior dead, 
And in one moonlit place a ring on a white hand, 
When Roland thought, " Gerard ! the merriest of the 

band!" 
And no one stirr'd ; behind, the hills loom'd cold and 

dim; 
And in the west the waning Moon with red and wasting 

rim. 

in 

Then Roland cried aloud, " If living man there be 
Among these heaps of slain, let that man answer me !" 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



And no man spake. The wind crept chilly over all, 
But no man felt it breathe, or heard the leader call. 
" Ho, Olivier ! Gerin ! speak, an' ye be not dead !" 
Small voices of the hills afar off echoed, — 
Only a heathen churl rose cursing on his side, 
And spat at him who spake, and curl'd his limbs, and 

died. 
Then Roland's mighty heart was heavy with its woes, — 
When suddenly, across the fields, faint radiance rose, 
First a faint spark, and then a gleam, and then a glare, 
Then smoke and crimson streaks that mingled in the 

air, 
And as the thick flame cleard, and the black smoke 

swam higher, 
There loom'd beyond a shape like one girt round with 

fire. 
And Roland cried aloud, because his joy was great, 
And brandish'd Adalmar, and fell beneath the weight, 
And lying prone strain' d eyes, and, gazing through the 

night, 
Still saw the glittering shape girt round with smoky 

light, 
And seemed in a dream, and could not think at all, 
Until his heart rose up, and he had strength to crawl, 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 201 

Then like a bruised worm weary he crept and slow, 
Straining his fever'd eyes lest the sweet light should go, 
And often paused to breathe, feeling his pulses fail, 
'Mong heathens foul to smell and warriors clad in mail, 
But coming near the light beheld the godly man, 
Turpin the archbishop, unhelm'd and gaunt and wan, — 
Gripping with skinny hand the ivory Cross sat he, 
Clad head to heel in bright white mail and propp'd 
against a tree. 

IV. 

And when on hands and knees the stricken chief 

came near, 
The Bishop raised the Cross, and knew his comrade 

dear; 
And Roland did not speak, though tears were in his ee, 
But touch'd the blessed Cross, and smiled painfullie ; 
While, "Glory be to God !" the Bishop faintly said, 
"Thou livest, kinsman dear, though all the rest be 

dead ! 
For while I linger'd here and listen'd for a sound, 
And in the dim red moon beheld the dead around, 
Thinking I heard a cry, I sought to cry again, 
But all my force had fled, and I was spent with pain ; 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



When, peering round, I saw this heathen at my heel, 
And search'd his leathern scrip and found me flint and 

steel, 
Then crawl'd, though swoonmg-sick, and found his 

charger gray, 
And searching in the bags found wither'd grass and 

hay, 
And made a fire, a sign for thee, whoe'er thou wert, 
And fainted when it blazed, for I am sorely hurt ; 
And waken'd to behold thee near, w r ounded and weak, 
The red fire flaming on thy face, thy breath upon my 

cheek." 

v. 

Then those brave chiefs wrung hands, and as the 

smoky flare 
Died out, and all was dark, the Bishop said a prayer, 
And shadows loom'd out black against the frosty 

shine, 
While Turpin search'd his pouch and murmur' d, 

" Here is wine !" 
And Roland on his elbows raised himself and quaff 'd, 
Drank, till his head swam round, a deep and goodly 

draught, 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 203 

And quickly he felt strong, his heart was wild and light, 
And placed his dear sword softly down, and rose his 

height, 
Loosening his mail, drew forth the shirt that lay 

beneath, 
And took the blood-stained silk and tore it with his 

teeth, 
And dress'd the Bishop's wounds with chilly hand and 

slow, 
Then, while the Bishop pray'd, bound up his own wide 

wound alsoe. 

VI. 

Then Roland searched around, dipping his hands in 

blood, 
Till in a henchman's pack he found a torch of wood, 
And taking flint and steel, blew with his mouth, and 

lo! 
The torch blazed bright, and all grew crimson in the 

glow ; 
And gave the torch unto the man of holy fame, 
Who glittering like fire, sat sickening in the flame, 
And crept across the mead, into the dark again, 
And felt the faces of the slain, seeking the mighty men. 



204 MISCELLANEOUS. 



VII. 

Bless'd be thy namej white Mary, for thy breath and 
light, 
Like vapour cold, did fill the nostrils of thy knight ! 
Yea, all his force came back, his red wound ceased to 

bleed, 
And he had hands of strength to do a blessed deed ! 
For one by one he found each well-beloved head, 
Sought out the mighty chiefs, among the heaps of dead, 
Softly unloosed their helms, let the long tresses flow, 
TraiFd them to Turpin's feet and set them in a row ; 
And underneath the tree the pine-torch blazed bright 
On dreadful shapes in mail and faces ghastly white : 
Sansun, who held his sword with grip that ne'er un- 
loosed ; 
Gerin, with chin on breast, as if he breathed and mused; 
Great Guy, with twisted limbs, and bosom gash'd and 

bare, 
And blood-clots on his arms the cold had frozen there; 
Old Luz, his skinny hands fill'd with a foeman's 

beard ; 
Charles with his feet lopp'd off, Pierre with his green 
eye spear'd; 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 205 

Sanche, the fierce woman's foe, and round his neck, 

behold ! 
A lock of lady's hair set in a ring of gold ; 
Antoine, with crafty smile, as if new fights he plann'd ; 
Gerard, still smiling on the ring upon his hand ; 
And, brightest of the band, our Roland's comrade dear, 
The iron woman-shape, the long-lock' d Olivier, 
"Who gript the bladeless hilt of Durandal his pride, 
And held it to his kissing lips, as when he swoon'd 

and died. 

VIII. 

And Turpin raised the torch, counted them one by 

one : 
" Ah, woe is me, sweet knights, for now your work is 

done ! " 
Then, reaching with the Cross, he touch'd their brows 

and cried : 
" White Mary take your souls, and place them at her' 

side ! 
White Mary take your souls, and guard them ten- 

derlie,— 
For ye were goodly men as any men that be ! " 
And Roland stooping touch'd the brow of Olivier, 
Smoothing the silken hair behind the small white ear. 



206 MISCELLANEOUS. 



And cried, "Ah, woe is me, that we should ever part !" 
And kiss d him on the foamy lips, and swoon' d for 
ache of heart. 

IX. 

And Turpin dropp'd the torch, that flamed upon the 

ground, 
But meeting new-shed blood, went out with hissing 

sound; 
He groped for Roland's heart, and felt it faintly beat, 
And, groping on the earth, he found the wine-flask 

sweet, 
And fainting with the toil, slaked not his own great 

drouth, 
But, shivering, held the flask to Roland's foamy mouth : 
E'en then, his Soul shot up, and in its shirt of steel 
The corse sank back with crash like ice that cracks 

beneath the heel. 

x. 

The frosty night-wind waken' d Roland from his 

swound, 
And, spitting salt foam from his tongue, he looked 

around, 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 207 

And saw the Bishop dear lying at length close by, — 
Touch' d him, and found him cold, and utter'd up a 

cry : 
" Now, dead and cold, alas ! lieth the noblest wight 
For preaching sermons sweet and wielding sword in 

fight; 
His voice was as a trump that on a mountain blows, 
He scatter'd oils of grace and wasted heathen-foes, — 
White Mary take his soul, to join our comrades 

dear, 
And let him wear his bishop's crown in heaven a,bove 

as here ! " 

XL 

Then it grew chiller far, the grass grew moist with dew, 
The landskip glimmer' d pale, the hoary breezes blew, 
The many stars above melted like snow-flakes white, 
And far behind the hills the east was laced with light, 
The dismal vale loom'd clear against a crimson glow, 
Clouds spread above like wool, pale steam arose 

below, 
And on the faces dead the frosty morning came, 
On mighty men, and foes, and squires unknown to 

fame, 



20S MISCELLANEOUS. 



And armed mail gleam'd bright, and broken steel 

gleam'd gray, 
And cold dew fill'd the wounds of those who sleeping 

lay; 
And Roland, rising, drank the dawn with lips apart, 
But scents were in the air that sicken'd his proud 

heart ! 
Yea, all was deathly still ; and now, though it was day, 
The moon grew small and pale, but did not pass away, 
The white mist wreath'd and curl'd over the glittering 

dead, 
A cock crew, far among the hills, and echoes answered. 



XII. 

Then peering to the east, across the dewy steam, 
He spied a naked wood, and there a running stream ; 
Thirsting full sore, he rose, and thither did he hie, 
Faintly, and panting hard, because his end was nigh ; 
But first he stooping loosed from Turpin's fingers cold 
The Cross inlaid with gems and wrought about with 

gold, 
And bare the holy Cross aloft in one weak hand, 
And with the other trail'd great Adalmar his brand. 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 209 

Thus wearily he came into the woody place, 

And stooping to the stream dipped therein his face, 

And in the pleasant cold let swim his great black 

curls, # 

Then swung his forehead up, glittering as with pearls ; 
And while the black blood spouted in a burning jet, 
He loosed the bandage of his wound and made it wet, 
Wringing the silken bands, making them free from 

gore, 
Then placed them cool upon the wound, and tighten'd 

them once more. 

XIII. 

Eastward rose cloudy mist, drifting like smoke in 

wind, 
Ghastly and round the sun loom'd dismally behind, 
High overhead the moon faded with sickle chill, 
The frosty wind dropp'd down, and all was deathlier 

still, 
And Roland, drawing deep the breath of vapours 

cold, 

Beheld three marble steps, as of a ruin old, 

And at the great tree-bolls lay many a carven stone, 

Thereto a dial quaint, where slimy grass had grown; 

o 



210 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And frosted were the boughs that gathered around, 
And cold the runlet crept, with soft and soothing 

sound, 
And Roland smiled sweet, and thought, " Since death 

is nigh, 
In sooth, I know no gentler place where gentle man 

could die !" 

xiv. 

Whereon the warrior heard a sound of breaking 

boughs, 
And, from the thicket wild, leapt one with tanned 

brows ; 
Half-naked, glistening dark with oily limbs, he came, 
His long-nail' d fingers curl'd, his little eyes aflame, 
Shrieking in his own tongue, as on the chief he flew, 
u Yield thee thy sword of fame, and thine own flesh 

thereto !" 
Then Roland gazed and frown'd, though nigh unto 

his death, 
Sat still, and drew up all his strength in a great 

breath, 
Prayd quickly to the saints he -served in former days 
With right hand clutch' d the sword he was too weak 

to raise, 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 211 

And in the left swung up the Cross, and, shrieking 

hoarse, 
Between the eyebrows smote the foe with all his force, 
Yea, smote him to the brain, crashing through skin 

and bone, 
And prone the heathen fell, as heavy as a stone, 
And gold and gems of price were loosen' d by the 

blow, 
And, as he fell, rain'd round the wild hair of the foe; 
But Roland kiss'd the cross, and, laughing, backward 

fell, 
And on the hollow air the laugh rang heavy, like a 

knell. 

xv. 

And Roland thought: "I surely die;. but, ere I 

end, 
Let me be sure that thou art ended too, my friend ! 
For should a heathen hand grasp thee when I am 

clay, 
My ghost would grieve full sore until the judgment 

day !" 
Then to the marble steps, under the tall bare trees, 
Trailing the mighty sword, he crawPd on hands and 

knees, 



212 MISCELLANEOUS. 



And on the slimy stone he struck the blade with 

might — 
The bright hilt, sounding, shook, the blade flash'd 

sparks of light ; 
Wildly again he struck, and his sick head went round, 
Again there sparkled fire, again rang hollow sound ; 
Ten times he struck, and threw strange echoes down 

the glade, 
Yet still unbroken, sparkling fire, glitter'd the peerless 

blade. 

XVI. 

Then Roland wept, and set his face against the 

stone — 
" Ah, woe, I shall not rest, though cold be flesh and 

bone!" 
And pain was on his soul to die so cheerless death ; 
When on his naked neck he felt a touch like breath, 
And did not stir, but thought, " O God, that madest 

me, 
And shall my sword of fame brandish'd by heathens 

be? 
And shall I die accursed, beneath a heathen's heel, 
Too weak to slay the slave whose hated breath I 

feel?" 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 21} 

Then, clenching teeth, he turn'd to look upon the foe, 
His bright eyes growing dim with coming death ; 

and lo ! 
His life shot up in fire, his heart arose again, 
For no unhallow'd face loom'd dark upon his ken, 
No heathen-breath he felt, — though he beheld, indeed, 
The white arch'd head and round brown eyes of 

Veillintif, his steed ! 

XVII. 

And pressing his moist cheek on his who gazed be- 
neath, 

Curling the upper lip to show the large white teeth, 

The white horse, quivering, look'd with melancholy 
eye, 

Then waved his streaming mane, and uttered up a 
cry; 

And Roland's bitterness was spent — he laugh'd, he 
smiled, 

He clasp'd his darling's neck, wept like a little child ; 

He kiss'd the foamy lips, and hugged his friend, and 
cried : 

" Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we to battle 
ride ! 



214 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Ah, nevermore, and nevermore, shall we sweet com- 
rades be ! 

And Veillintif, had I the heart to die forgetting 
thee 1 

To leave thy mighty heart to break, in slavery to the 
foe? 

I had not rested in the grave, if it had ended so. 

Ah, never shall we conquering ride, with banners 
bright unfuiTd, 

A shining light 'mong lesser lights, a wonder to the 
world!" 

XVIII. 

And Veillintif neigh'd low, breathing on him who 

died, 
Wild rock'd his great strong heart beneath his silken 

hide, 
Tears roll'd from his brown eyes upon his master's 

cheek, 
And Roland, gathering strength, though wholly worn 

and weak, 
Held up the point of Adalmar the peerless brand, 
And at his comrade's heart push'd with his dying 

hand ; 



THE DEATH OF ROLAND. 215 

And the black blood sprang forth, while heavily as 

lead, 
With quivering, silken side, the mighty steed fell 

dead; 
And Roland, for his eyes with frosty film were dim, 
Groped for the steed, crept close, and smiled, em- 
bracing him, 
And, pillow'd on his neck, kissing the pure white 

hair, 
Clasp' d Adalmar the brand, and tried to say a prayer, 
And that he conquering died, wishing all men to 

know, 
Set firm his lips, and turn'd his face towards the foe, 
And closed eyes, and slept, and never woke again. 

Roland is dead, the gentle knight ! dead is the crown 
of men ! 



THE SCAITH O' BARTLE: 

A TALE OF THE NORTH-EAST C0AS"l\ 

Fathoms deep the ship doth lie, 

Wreath'd with ocean weed and shell, 
The God s'ips past with rounu "white eye, 
Still and deep the shadows lie, 

Dusky as a i'jrest dell : 
Tangled in the twisted sail, 

With the breathing of the Sea, 
Stirs the Man who told this tale 

Staring upward dreamilie. 

T LAID him here, and scarcely wept; but look! 

His grave is green and wild and like a wave, 
And strewn with ocean-weeds instead o' flowers. 

You saw him, Jack, langsyne, on board the Crow, 
Cod-fishing in Newfoundland, and (you mind ?) 



THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 217 

We drank a gill, all three, the very day 
Before the Crow went down off Baker s Head, 
And all the crew were drown' d but brother Dan. 
To think a man who faced so many a storm, 
And stood on splitting planks and never quail' d, 
And swam to save his life a dozen times, 
Should ever die ashore ! Why, from the first, 
We twins were meant for sailors : — God himself 
Planted a wind in both our brains to blow 
Our bodies up and down His calms and storms. 
Never had wilder, stormier year been known 
Here in the clachan, than the very year 
When Dan and I were born ; — waters and winds 
Roar'd through the wintry season, and the sounds 
And sights weigh'd on our Highland mother's heart, 
Giving her whims and moods in which the bairns 
Beneath her heart were fashion'd ; and in March, 
The Scaith came down the valley, roaring past 
Our mother's ears the hour we grat and saw. 
Ay ! we were made to sail the seas, and hear 
The battling of the waters and the winds, 
And should have sail'd the seas until the end- 
Green fields and wimpling streams and inglesides 
Were never meant for cairds like Dan and I. 



2l8 MISCELLANEOUS. 



When other boys were mumping at the school. 
Or yellowing their white livers at a desk, 
I went as cabin-lad on board a whaler, 
And Dan took his big handkerchief, tied up 
His sark and comb and brush, and two or three 
Big home-baked bannocks, and a lump of cheese, 
Kiss'd mother, (that 's her grave beside his own,) 
And walk'd to Abereden, where he found 
A berth on board a brig — the Jessie Gray, 
Bound south for Cadiz. After that, for years 
We drifted up and down ; — and when we met 
Down in the Clyde, and journeyed home together, 
We both were twenty, Dan was poor as ever, 
But I had saved. How changed he look'd! how fine! 
Brown cheek and bit o' whisker, hands like steel, 
A build as sturdy as a mountain fir's, — 
Ay, every inch a sailor ! Then, the tales 
We had for one another ! — tales of storms, 
And sights on land, pranks play'd and places seen ! — 
But, " Bob, I 'm tired of being on the seas, 
The life's a hard one at the best," says Dan; 
And I was like a fool, and thought the same. 
So home we came, found father dead and gone, 
And mother sorely push'd ; and round her neck 



THE SCAITH O* BARTLE. 219 

We threw our arms, and kiss'd her, and she cried, 
And we cried too, and I took out my pay 
And pour'd it in her lap ; and Dan look'd grieved, 
And, glancing from the pay to mother, cried, 
" I ; 11 never, never go to sea again ! " 

; Tis thirty years ago, and yet right well 
I mind it all. How pleasant for a time 
Was life on land : the tousling with the girls, 
The merry-making in the public-house, 
The cosy bed on winter nights. We work'd — 
I at the fishing, Dan at making nets — 
And kept old mother for a year and more. 
But ere the year was out, the life grew dull : 
We never heard the wind blow, but we thought 
Of sailing on the sea, — we got a knack 
Of lying on the beach and listening 
To the great waters. Still, for mother's sake, 
Ashore we had to tarry. By and by, 
The restlessness grew worse, and show'd itself 
In other ways, — taking a drop too much, 
Fighting and cutty-stooling — and the folk 
Began to shake their heads. Amid it all, 
One night when Dan was reading out God's Book, 



220 MISCELLANEOUS. 



(That bit about the storm, where Peter tries 
To walk on water, and begins to sink,) 
Old mother sigh'd and seem'd to go to sleep, 
And when we tried to wake her, she w r as dead. 

With sore, sore hearts we laid poor mother down ; 
And walk'd that day up yonder cliffs, and lay 
A-hearkening to the sea that wash'd beneath : 
Far, far away we saw a sail gleam wet 
Out of a rainy spot below the line 
Where sky and water meet; the sea was calm, 
And overhead went clouds whose shadows floated 
Slowly beneath, and here and there were places 
Purple and green and blue, and close to land 
The red-sail'd fish-boats in a violet patch. 
I look'd at brother Dan, Dan look'd at me, — 
And that same morning, off we went again ! 

No rest for us on land from that day forth. 
We grew to love the waters ; they became 
Part of our flesh and blood : the Sea, the Sea, 
The busy whistling round the foam-girt world, 
Was all our pleasure. Now and then we met, — 
Once in a year or two, and never came 



THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 221 

To Scotland, but we took a journey here 

To look on mother's grave, and spend a day 

With old companions. But we never thought 

Of resting long, and never hoped to die 

Ashore, like mother : we had fix'd it, Jack, 

That we must drown some day. At last, by luck, 

We ran together. Dan had got a place 

As captain of a brig, and, pressed by him, 

They made me mate. Ten years we sail'd together, 

From Liverpool to New South Wales- and back ; 

And we were lads no more, but staid, strong men, 

Forty and upward, — yet with kibble arms, 

Brown cheeks, and cheerful hearts. Then the ill wind 

That blew no good to any one began, 

And puff'd us back to Scotland, to this place 

Where we were born and bred. 

Now, mark you, Jack, 
Even a sailor is but flesh and blood, 
Though out upon the water he can laugh 
At women and their ways : a run on shore, 
A splash among the dawties and the drink, 
Soon tires, soon tires, — then hey ! away again 
To the wild life that 's worthy of a man ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



At forty, though, a sailor should be wise, 

And 'ware temptation : whole a sailor, free, 

But only half a sailor, though afloat, 

When wedded. Don't you guess ? Though Dan was old, 

His head was turn'd, while in the clachan here, 

And by a woman, — Effie Paterson, 

The daughter of a farmer on the hills, 

And only twenty. Bonnie, say you 1 Ay ! 

As sweet a pout as ever grew on land ; 

But soft and tender, with a quiet face 

That needed the warm hearth to light it up, 

And went snow-pallid at a puff of wind 

Or whiff of danger. When I saw the trap, 

I tried my best to wheedle Dan away, 

Back to the brig ; but, red as ricks on fire, 

He glinted dark with those deep eyes of his, 

And linger'd. Then, 'twas nearly time to sail ; 

I talk'd of going, and it all came out : 

He meant to marry, Jack ! — and not content 

With marrying, he meant to stop ashore ! 

Why, if a lightning flash had split our brig, 
I should have wonder'd less. But, "Bob," says he, 
" I love this lassie as I never thought 



THE SCAITH o' BARTLE* 223 

'Twas in my heart to love ; and I have saved ; 
And I am tired of drifting here and there 
On the great waters : I have earn'd my rest, 
And mean to stop ashore until I die." 
'Twas little use to argue things with Dan 
When he had settled aught within his mind ; 
So all I said was vain. What could I do 
But put a sunny face upon it all, 
And bid him hasten on the day, that I 
Might see his wedding, and be off again. 

Yet soon I guess'd, before the wedding day, 
That Erne did not care a cheep for Dan, 
But scunner 'd at his brave rough ways and tales 
Of danger on the deep. His was a voice 
Meant for the winds, with little power to whisper 
The soft sleek things that make the women blush, 
And tingle, and look sweet. Moreover, Dan 
Was forty, and the lassie but a child. 
I saw it all, but dared not speak my thought ! 
For Dan had siller, Erne's folks were poor, 
And Dan was blind, and Erne gave consent, 
And talk was no avail. The wedding guests 
Went up to Jessie's home one pleasant day, 



224 MISCELLANEOUS. 



The minister dropp'd in, the kirk-bells rang, 
And all was over. 'Twas a summer morn, 
The blue above was fleck' d with feathery down, 
The sea was smooth, and, like a ringdove's neck, 
Changeful and full of colours, and the kirk 
Stood mossy here upon the little hill, 
And seem'd to ring a blessing over all. 

And Effie 1 Ah ! keep me from women, Jack ! 
Give them a bit o' sunshine — and they smile, 
Give them a bit o' darkness — and they weep ; 
But smiles and tears with them are easy things, 
And cheat ye like the winds. On such a day, 
With everybody happy roundabout, 
Effie look'd happy too ; and if her face 
Flush'd and was fearful, that was very joy; 
For when a woman blushes, who can tell 
Whether the cause be gladness, pride, or shame ? 
And Dan (God bless him !) look'd as young as you, 
Trembled and redden d lass-like, and I swear, 
Had he not been a sailor, would have cried. 
So I was cheer'd, next day, when off I went 
To take his post as captain of the brig, 
And I forgot my fears, and thought them wrong, 



THE SCAITH o' EARTLE. 225 

And went across the seas with easy heart, 
Thinking I left a happy man behind. 

But often, out at sea, 1 thought of Dan, 
Wonder'd if he was happy. When the nights 
Were quiet, and the cabin where I slept 
Was steaming with the moonshine, I would lie 
And listen to the lapping of the waves, 
And think : " I wonder if this very light 
Is shining far away on poor old Dan ? ' 
And if his face looks happy in it, while 
He sleeps by Effie's side?" On windy nights 
I used to think of Dan with trouble and fear; 
And often, when the waves were ribb'd and white, 
And on we drove bare-poled before the wind, 
The foamy waters seem'd to take the shape 
Of this old clachan, and I seem'd to hear 
Dan calling me ; and I would drink the salt, 
And pace the deck with all my blood on fire, 
And cry — " If Dan were driving on out here, 
Dashing and weather-beaten, never still, 
He would be happier !" 



Ay ! though the storm 
p 



226 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Roll'd fierce between us, voices came from Dan 

To tell me he was weary of the land. 

Often, when I was floating in the ship, 

He hung about these caves and watch' d the moon 

Silv'ring the places where no wind was blowing, 

And thought of me ! or on the beach he lay, 

And wearied to the breaking of the waves ! 

Or out from land he row'd his boat, and gazed 

Wistfully eastward ! or on windy nights 

He speel'd yon cliffs above the shore, and set 

His teeth together in the rain and wind, 

Straining eyes seaward, seeking lights at sea, 

And pacing up and down upon the brinks 

As if he trode the decks ! Why, things like those 

Saved him from withering, salted all his blood, 

And soothed his heartache. Wind and wave are far 

More merciful than a young woman's heart. 

Why, had she been a bickering hizzie, fill'd 
With fire and temper, stubborn as a whin, 
And cushlingmushling o'er a cheerless fire, 
Dan might have brought her round : that was the work 
He understood full well; and, right or wrong, 
He would have been the skipper to the end. 



THE SCAITH o' BARTLE. 227 

But though a man who has been train d at sea, 

Holding a hard strong grip on desperate men, 

Can sink his voice and play a gentle part 

In sunny seasons, he has little power 

To fight with women's weapons. Dan, be sure, 

Loved Effie with a love the deeper far 

And tenderer because he had been bred 

On the rough seas; but when, from day to day, 

He met a weary and a waning face, 

That tried to smile, indeed, but could not smile, 

And saw the tears where never tears should be, 

Yet never met an angry look or word, 

What could he do ? He loved the lass too well 

To flyte ; tried tender words, but they were spent 

Upon a heart where the cold crancreuch grew ; 

And, when the sorrow grew too sharp to dree, 

Turn'd soopit from the dwelling. Plain he saw 

The lass was dreary, though she kept so still, 

And loved him not, though nothing harsh was said, 

But fretted, and grew thin, and haunted him 

With a pale face of gentleness and blame. 

O Jack, Jack, Jack, of all the things accurst, 

Worse than a shipwreck on a savage coast, 

Worse than a tempest and the rocks ahead, 



228 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Is dismal cloudy weather and dead calm ! 

Homeless and sad and troubled by her face, 

If Dan had let his heart and brain keep still, 

Let the damp mildew settle on his heart, 

He would have shrunk into a wretched thing 

The rains might beat on, and the winds might lash, 

And ne'er have had the heart to stand erect, 

And set his teeth, and face them, and subdue. 

What could he do, but try to ease his birn 

By haunting yonder beach, and glorying 

In stormy seasons, thinking of the life 

He used to lead, with ocean-sound for ever 

Making a second life within his blood, 

Thinking of me, and feeling that his heart 

Was help'd a bit by his old friend the Sea 1 

And Effie Widdershins, from day to day, 
Turn'd from the happy shining of the sun, 
In wanrest and in tears ; and poor old Dan 
Dree'd bitterly the dreary life in hand. 
No stanchgrass ever heal'd a wound so deep. 

'Twas comfort dwelling in so wild a place, 
So near to open water ; but for that, 



THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 229 

I do not think he could have borne to dwell 

Pining ashore. His trouble grew and grew : 

No corsy-belly warm'd at Effie's fire, 

No doctors watch tick'd by the jizzen-bed, 

No sound of tiny footfalls fill'd the house 

With happy cheer ; the dull and lifeless mood 

Grew on the wife ; her sense of shame seem'd gone ; 

She paid no heed to dress, or to the house, 

But wearied, like a pale-faced, listless flower, 

Grown in a weedy garden. Then, indeed, 

To see all household ties neglected so, 

The crowsfeet gathering round Effie's eyes, 

The ingleside so dreary and so cold, 

Dan clench'd his fists, and storm' d with thunder-voice ; 

But Effie only trembled, and was still, 

Or threw her apron o'er her face and wept ; 

And Dan, who never in his life could bear 

To see a woman greet, pleaded and begged, — 

Without avail. Then many and many a night 

He roam'd the silent cliffs till peep of day, 

Or join'd the fishers, out upon the sea; 

And many and many a night he thought he heard 

My voice a-calling him. One night of storm, 

When the sky murmur'd, and the foamy sea 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



Flash'd in the fireflaught round the shadowy cliffs, 

He fix'd to run away ; but could not go, 

Until he gazed on Erne's face once more ; 

And when he stole into her room unheard, 

He saw her sleeping with a happy smile, 

So still, so sweet, so bonnie in her dream, 

So like the shining lass she used to be, 

That his heart fail'd, he swaver'd forth again, 

And lay upon the waterside and wept, 

And though the wind was whistling in his eyes, 

And the still fireflaught whiten'd all the sea, 

He felt o'er weak, o'er gentle, and o'er sad, 

To quit her in the little cottage here, 

And leave the little lamp that lit her face 

Many and many a stormy mile behind, 

And dree again the darkness of the deep. 

The house is yonder — ay, the red-tiled house, 
With little patch of garden. Mark the pool 
Of water at the door. Beyond you see 
The line of boats, drawn high and dry, and yonder 
The dull, green water, with the purple stain 
Out eastward, and the sunlight peeping through 
Upon a sail. Mark how the clachan lies 



THE SCAITH o' BARTLE. 231 

Down in the gully, with the barren hills, 

Where never ran-tree waves its silver hair, 

On either side. Look backward, now ! The glen, 

Hollow'd between the hills, goes inland, far 

As eye can see, — with yellow pools of rain, 

And cattle looking shadowy in the mists 

Upon the slopes. How still and dull looks all ! 

'Tis plain you gather, with a sailor's eye, 

The danger. When the rains have lasted long, 

The yellow waters (rightly christen'd here 

The Scaith o' Bartle) gather up the glen, 

Suck in the strength of flying mist and cloud, 

And, bursting from the hollows where they meet, 

Rush seaward, with a roaring like the sea, 

O'erwhelming all. Thrice has the mischief come 

In one-and-twenty years. 

When I came home, 
A month ago, and walk'd across the hills 
From Cardy town, I paused on yonder cliffs, 
And saw the clachan lying at my feet, — 
The setting sun shining upon the house 
Where Dan was dwelling. Nought was alter'd there ! 
The very punts and fish-boats just the same 



232 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



As when I quitted. While I stood and gazed, 

I saw a stooping figure with a staff, 

Standing hard by me on the cliffs, and gazing 

Wistfully seaward. As I look'd, he turn'd, 

And though the face was haggard, worn, and old, 

And every hair upon the head was gray, 

And the fresh strength about the limbs was gone, 

I knew old Dan, and, shouting blithely, ran 

To hug him to my heart ; and he turn'd white, 

Shaking like straw in wind, to find 'twas me. 

Then, when the shock was over, and we talk'd, 

He brighten'd, — as a bit of snow turns bright 

When shone on. But my heart was shock'd and sore ! 

He was the ghost of what he once had been ; 

His voice was broken, and his welcome seem'd 

Like one's who, sinking to the slumber, smiles 

To see a face he loves before he dies ; 

And when his air grew cheerier, and at last 

His love for me came brighter on his look, 

His cheeriness seem'd sadder far than all. 

Swavering down the path, he took my arm, 

Leant heavily on his staff, as if he dream'd, 

Talk'd of old times, and friends alive and dead, 

Until we halted at his cottage door ; 



THE SCAITH CT BARTLE, 233 

And, while he lifted up the latch, he cast 
His eyes to windward, read the weather signs, 
After old habit, ere he enter'd in. 

Effie was there, — changed too; she welcomed me, 
Moved but and ben the house with a light step, 
And smiled a wee : all women have a smile, 
A happiness, a kind of second self, 
Kept for fresh faces. Yet I saw fall soon 
The bield was homeless; little love was there; 
Ah, that was common crack aroundabout ! 
The first flush faded soon from Efne's face, 
Leaving it dull and wan; she moved about 
Like a sick lassie risen from a dream ; 
And aft, when we were seated in the lowe, 
She started, and her colour went and came; 
And though her features wore a kind of fear, 
There was a light of youth there : she would keek 
At Dan, whose eyes were steady on the fire, 
Hang o'er her knitting, breathing deep, and then 
Hearken and hearken, till the soft bright blush 
Died by degrees, her face became composed 
To pallor, a ad the light had gone away, 
Leaving her sick and soopit once again. 



234 MISCELLANEOUS. 



At last, when we were smoking in the bield 
One dull day in November, Dan arose 
And took his stick, and beckoning me went out, 
I follow'd; and he never spake a word, 
But gript me by the arm, and wahVd along, 
Until we left the clachan far behind, 
And took a path that winded up the hills. 
For many weeks, at intervals, the rain 
Had fallen; and the hills were dreeping damp, 
And down their sides ran many burns new-born, 
Making an eerie murmur. Far away 
Ben Callachan was glimmering through a mist, 
And all round Bartle rose a dewy steam 
Silent and gray, with cattle here and there 
Dismally looming; here and there a gull 
Blowing to seaward. Still and dull was all, 
So still, so still ; only the faint sharp stir 
That is a sound, but seems a click within 
The ear itself; save when from far away 
A cow would low, and echoes faint and sad 
Died inland, or when blowing on the wind 
A cry came from the sea, whose waves we saw 
Beyond us, breaking in a shadowy cloud, 
With gleams of glittering foam. But Dan walk'd on, 



THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 235 

Scarce heeding ought; and yet his sailor's eye 
Took in the signs, and glinted up and down 
With the old cunning ; but his heart was full, 
His voice was broken like a greeting wean's, 
And as we went along he told me all. 

All that you ken ! but somewhat more — a thought 
Of later growth, a nettle in his heart — 
That Effie was not true, as wives should be ; 
Not that, while keeping care beneath her cloak, 
She carried consolation meath her sark; 
That would have meant a bloody deed with Dan; 
But that her happiest thoughts were fallen things 
That clung around a fresh young kimmer's knees. 
I stared at Dan, and hearken'd in amaze ! 
His grip was tight upon my arm, his face 
White as the snow on Callachan, his voice 
Shrill as a seagull's shriek; and all at once 
He waved his arms, turn'd his wild face away, 
And cried aloud with a full heart — " O God ! 
Why did I ever cease to sail the sea?" 

1 

I tried to cheer him ; 'twas but useless work, 

Stirring a muddy pool with bonnie flowers ! 



236 MISCELLANEOUS. 



I tried to argue with him — he was dumb ! 
And yet I saw, had I been daft enough 
To echo him, he would have hated me. 
He only half believed the things he said, 
And would have turn'd in wrath on any man 
Who could believe them true, and say the same. 
He loved the braxie still, as few can love, 
Save the good Shepherd, who has love for all ! 
Could not have tholed to hear another's mouth 
Condemn her ! blamed himself for all his grief! 
And gladly would have died beneath her feet, 
To win one word, one kiss, one shining look, 
To show his love had not been quite in vain ! 

But on we fared, so fill'd with our own thoughts, 
We scarcely saw how far away we wandered, 
How mirk all grew, how close the gathering clouds 
Drew to the hill-tops, while the cattle raised 
Their heads into the dismal air and cried. 
Then, suddenly, there came a lightning flash 
That for a moment lighted up the hills, 
The far-off cliffs, and the white lines of foam, 
And faded, — to a sound as if the earth 
And heavens were torn asunder. Soon the storm 



THE SCAITH O' BARTLE. 237 

Deepen' d — the thunder and the lightning came 

Ofter than dark or silence ; and I felt 

Far less myself on those dull endless heights, 

Than seeing, hearing, from my ship at sea. 

But Dan said little ; only, as the drops 

Of rain began to fall, he led the way 

Into a mountain shieling, roof d with peat, 

Where we in shelter cowrie d, and talk'd on 

Of his dull ingleside, his cheerless days, 

How his heart gizzen'd looking from the land, 

The terror and the pain he had to dree, 

And " all I care for now is ended, Bob ! 

I want to die, but not to leave the wife 

Untended and unhappy. After all, 

I cannot blame her for her crancreuch face, — - 

She is so young — mid-eild is past with me- — 

Be sure that she would love me if she could !" 

And then he glower' d out on the dark, and groan'd, 

" Would I were in my grave ! — would I were doom'd 

Among the waves ! — would I were far out yonder, 

Praying and sinking in a boat at sea !" 

And I was silent ; but the elements 
Made answer. With a clash like iron fell 



238 MISCELLANEOUS. 



The headlong torrent of the soot-dark clouds, 
Drowning the thunders with its dreesome cry, 
Birming above, around, and smiting earth 
With strength of stone. Never for many a year 
Had such a fall been known : it seem'd the Lord 
Unlocking all His waters to destroy 
The bad world o'er again. No rainbow there 
To promise sunshine and a speedy end! 
For 'twas the Black Rain, which had once or twice 
Gone southward, making frighted elders groan, 
Caught ruffling cockernonies after prayers, 
And which old wives in Bartle often call 
The " Deil's rain," thinking Satan flies himself, 
Dropping the sooty blackness from above. 
Silent we cowried, watching, and the air 
Was full of a great roar — -the earth beneath 
Seem'd shaking—and the torrent forced a way 
Through the thick turf above our heads, and fell 
Upon us, splashing, as with watery ink, 
Our hands and faces. But I saw Dan's eye 
Had kindled. He was younger. For the sounds 
Quicken'd his sense of life, brought up his heart, 
And minded him of former fearsome days 
Upon the ocean ; and his other self— 



THE SCAITH O* BARTLE. 239 

The weary self that lived the life on land — 
Forsook him. Then there was a lull, a pause — 
Not broken by the further fall of rain, 
Nor by the thunder-claps, but by a sign 
More terrible than all — a roar, a groan, 
A motion as of waters, and a sound 
Like the dread rushing of an angry sea. 

And Dan threw up his arms, screaming aloud, 
"The Scaith! the Scaith !" — and groan' d, and 

rush'd away, 
I following close behind him in the mirk. 

And on he rush'd, until he gain'd a craig, 
Above the glen, yonder between the hills ; 
And cattle huddled round him, lowing loud, 
/ ad the Scaith thicken'd, and the murmur grew, 
While we gazed down. The mists hung round the 

heights, 
The rain still fell, but softly, — and below, 
Roaring on seaward, snatching in its course 
Boulders and trees and cattle, rush'd the Scaith, 
A blacken'd yellow rush of waters, foaming 
Where'er it touch'd the feet of craig or steep, 



24O MISCELLANEOUS. 



And dizzily whirling round the great tree-roots 

To twist them from their beds.. White, scared, and 

stunn'd, 
Dan groan'd, and sank upon his knees, and wept. 
Done was the thunder ; but the waters made 
Another thunder, and the fireflaught came 
Fainter and fainter. Then we heard from far 
A sound more awful — shrieks of living men, 
Children and women ; while the thinning clouds 
Parted to westward, brightening at the rims, 
And rays of misty Sunset slanted down 
On Bartle, and the Scaith had seized its prey* 

" Effie I" cried Dan; and sped along the hills, 
And would have rush'd right downward to his death 
Had I not gript him. But we found a way 
O'er the hillside, and gain'd the northern height 
Above the clachan. Jack, until I die, 
That hour will haunt me ! For the clachan lay 
Naip-deep beneath the moaning rain-dyed flood. 
And bields sank shattered, and the sunset cold 
Gleam' d upon Bartle and the sea beyond; 
And on the slopes on either side there gathered 
Women and men : some screeching as they saw 



THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 24I 

The Scaith drink up their houses and their goods, 
Some crying for the friends they could not see, 
Some sitting still, and looking on their bairns, 
As if they had gone wild Then Dan glared round, 
Seeking for Effie, — but he saw her not; 
And the damp sunset gleaming on his face, 
Grimed with the sooty rain-drops, ghastlied it, 
But he was cool as he had often been 
On gruesome nights at sea. " She is not here !" 
He whisper'd ; " yet she cannot but be saved; 
Perchance she gathers with the folk that stand 
Waving their arms yonder across the flood ; 
Oh, would my eyes were young, that I might see.'* 
That way I gazed ; but all that I could see 
Were mists beyond the clachan ; down below, 
The slow-subsiding waters ; here and there 
Women and children screaming on the naips, 
While punts and fish-boats glided here and there, 
Piloting slowly through the rocks and walls, 
To succour those unsaved ; at intervals 
A leafless tree-top peering through the water, 
While frighted birds lit on its twigs, or wheel'd 
Around it crying. Then, "A boat! a boat!'* 
Dan cried ; but he was crying to the air: 



242 MISCELLANEOUS. 



The folk around him heard and made a stir, — 
But some scarce raised their wild and greeting eyes, 
And some stopp'd moaning, look'd at him who cried, 
And then again sat rocking to and fro, 
Gazing straight downward, and with eerie groans 
Bewailing their own sorrow. 

Then the place 
Blacken' d in gloaming — mists rose from the flood — 
The sky tum'd black, with neither stars nor moon, 
And down below, flashing from place to place, 
The lights, like corpse-lights warning folk of death. 
Flitted and faded, showing where the boats 
Still moved about upon their weary work ; 
And those who grieved were stiller all around ; 
And the deep moaning of the Scaith was hush'd, 
And you could hear the breaking of the Sea; 
And only now and then a hollow splash 
Spake plain of walls that yielded and slipt down 
Into the waters. Then a light came near, 
And to the water's edge a fishing-boat 
Brought a dead fisher, and a greeting wean 
Who cried for "mither;" and as he who row'd 
Handed the bairn to hungry outstretch'd arms, 



THE SCAITH O BARTLE. 243 

And landed with the corpse, old Dan leapt in, 
Snatching the lanthorn from the fisher's hand, 
Push* d off ere I could follow, and was gone 
Into the darkness. . . . 

Jack, — I never again 
Saw poor old Dan, alive ! Yet it was well 
His days were ended ; for that very day, 
Ere the Scaith came, Efne had flown from home,— 
Ay, with another man ; — and ere I knew 
The truth, why, she was out upon the waves, 
And fleeing with the loon to Canada. 
Ill winds pursue her ! God will find her out ! 
He sent His water down to free old Dan, 
And He is after her across the deep ! 

Next dawning, when the water was subdued, 
And sinking slowly through the cracks of earth, 
Pouring in deep brown burns to join the sea, 
Fouling with mud the line of breaking foam, 
It was a piteous sight to watch the folk, 
With spade and mattock, digging at the graves 
Of their own dwellings ; taking what was saved 
With bitter thankless faces. Fallen walls, 



244 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And trees uprooted from the waste hillsides, 
And boulders swept from far along the glen, 
And household lumber gather'd everywhere, 
Mingled in ruin ; and the frailer bields 
Were swept away for ever. As for me, 
I had my work in hand. I took a spade 
And waded through the thick and muddy pool, 
('Twas still knee-deep,) right onward to the place 
Where Dan had dwelt. For something drew me there, 
Foremost of all. The bield was standing still, 
Though doors and windows had been beaten in ; 
And as I splash'd along the passage, bits 
Of household lumber tripped me ; but I went 
Right on to Erne's room, and there the flood 
Was lying deep and cold ; and there lay Dan. 

Drifting upon the water, with his face 
Turn'd downward, his hands clench'd, his long gray 

hair 
Floating around him- — stiff, and cold, and dead ! 
And when I turn'd his face up to the light, 
I did not scunner much, it look'd so strong, 
And seaman-like, and fine. I saw it all ! 
How he had drifted thither in the mirk 3 



THE SCAITH o' EARTLE. 245 

And found the water low around the bield, 

But slowly rising ; how he fought his way, 

Search'd but and ben, and last, in Erne's room, 

Stood ghastly in the lanthorn light, and saw 

The place was toom; and how, while there he stood, 

Staring in horror, with an eldritch cry 

The wild Scaith struck the crashing window panes, 

Dash'd down the lanthorn, gript him in the dark, 

Roar'd in his ears ; and while it struck him down, 

Out of his nostrils suck'd the breath of life. 

Jack, Jack, we know there comes to men who 

drown 
A sudden flashing vision of their life, — 
And ah ! how pitiful, how pitiful, 
Remembrance came, that minute ere he died : 
A vision of the sounding sea afar, 
A ghaistly ship upon it, — Efne's face, 
Coming and going like to floating foam, — 
The picture of the kirk upon the hill, 
And sunshine glittering on the wedding guests, — 
The shadowy cliffs where he had paced in pain, 
The waves, the sun, the moon, the thought of me, 
All thicken'd on him as he scream'd her name, 
And struggled with the cruel Scaith, and died ! 



246 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Ay ! God Almighty's water, e'en ashore, 
More merciful than women, found him out; 
And here he lies, but should have lain elsewhere. 
Had Scots law, and the blethering women's tongues, 
Not hinder'd, Jack, — I would have ta'en a boat, 
And sewn his body in a sheet, with stones 
Fasten'd beneath his feet to sink him down, 
And row'd out yonder, westward, where the sun 
Dips red beneath the straight blue line of sea, 
And said a prayer, and softly sent him down 
Where he could sleep in peace, and hear for ever 
The washing of the waters through the deeps : 
With flag-weeds o'er his head, great weeds all round, 
And white salt foam-bells hanging in his ears, 
His would have been a sailor's sleep indeed ! 
But as it is, he slumbers here on land, 
In shade of Bartle Kirk, 'mong country loons 
And fishermen that screech at open sea. 



THE GLAMOUR. 



The hills close round her — everywhere 
Strange voices deepen in the air; 
The pain, the hope, the agony, 
Flash to a sense of mystery ; 
The shapes of earth and air and skies 
Catch glamour in her weary eyes : 
Worn with the pain, worn with the pain, 
She would lie down, and sleep again ! 



f~\ LORD my God, draw now Thy hand away — 
The sleep-stoure fills my eyes — I feel my grave- 
And I would reach a painless end, like those 
Thy glamour ne'er hath troubled. I have been 
Oer long a shadow on the paths of men, 
O'er long a screeching bird in happy bields, 
O'er long a haunted wanderer day and night. 
Lord, let me die ! Lord, let me die ! Lord God, 



248 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Pity and spare me ! Draw Thy hand away ! 
Thy breath is on me in the mirk, and ah ! 
I sicken sore, while yonder through the pane 
Corpse-candles, blowing blue against the wind, 
Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn. 

What had I done, that Thou should pick me out, 
To breathe thy glamour on ? I was a lass 
Happy and heartsome, till that dreesome day 
I walk'd from kirk by moonlight down the glen, 
And saw Maccaskili of Craig-Dhonil pass, 
Sewn to the middle in his winding-sheet, 
And waving hairy arms until I swoon' d ; — • 
And ere a year was run Maccaskili died ; 
And then I kenn'd I had the bitter gift 
My father and my father's father had. 
Yet I was young, and felt a kind o y pride, 
To see so far into Thy mysteries, — 
To ken when man or wife was doom'd to die ; 
To see the young life in a lassie's wame, 
Although her snood was whole ; to prophesy 
Tempests and human losses. Many a man 
Then turn'd away ; but Kenneth married me — 
Kenneth Macdonald, sheep-herd on the hills, 



THE GLAMOUR. 249 



5 J 



A holy man and kind ; and for a time 

The glamour came no more, and I was gay, 

Feeling the young bairn underneath my breast 

Breathe softly with the rocking o' my heart. 

But in the winter gloaming, when the drift 

Was thick around the door, and winds were blowing. 

And I was lying on the jizzen-bed, 

And Jean the howdie wash'd my paps with salt, 

I saw a strange thing lying on her knee — 

A span-long body in a blood-stain'd sowe— 

And scream'd, and cried, " Jean, Jean, the bairn will 

die!" 
And so it was. For while old mother slipt 
Out to the kitchen lowe, where Kenneth sat, 
To drop a cinder through the wee white sark, 
The bairn came dead into the chilly mirk ; 
And in the snowy dawing I beheld 
The span-long body of my sweet first-born, 
Wrapt in its sowe, upon the howdie' s knee. 



But Angus lived — my white-faced sickly bairn, 
The last I bore ; for, ere I rose from bed, 
I heard, one gloaming dark, from but the house, 
A sound of sawing, hewing with an adze. 



250 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Mix'd with a sound of weeping, clapping hands ; 
And all the bield was empty, — and I knew 
A shell was being made for some one near ; 
And ah ! before the moon was full again, 
Just as the season of the lambing came, 
My bonnie man was sheeted in the house, 
And stiff, and cold ; and I was left alone, 
Shadow'd and sad, with hot tears dropping down 
On Angus, pulling feebly at my breast. 

I never bedded with another man, 
Never bare wean again ; but I could earn 
Both food and drink, and all my pride and joy 
Was Angus. Lord, he was the bonniest bairn 
The sweetest, gentlest, ever wrought in flesh, 
To gladden mother's eyes. The very day 
That he was born, I call'd the minister, 
Who gave him baptism, that the glamour ne'er 
Might come on him or his ; and ah ! he grew, 
Pale like a lily — for this solemn world 
0"er gentle ; and the glamour brought no fear 
To mirk our dwelling. Nay, for many a year, 
The eerie light seem'd gone away from me, 
For never ghaist or burial cross'd my path, 



THE GLAMOUR. 25I 



Corpse-light or wraith. Then Angus on the hills 

Grew sheep-herd, like his father, though he lack'd 

His father's fearless heart ; and, as he grew, 

Turn'd weaker, whiter — bonnie still, but thin 

And bloodless ; and he lack'd the heart to face 

Darkness and danger : ringing of a bell 

At midnight, sudden footsteps in the dark, 

A hand placed on his shoulder suddenly, 

Would strike him down into a swooning fit, 

Dreesome to see ; and when his eighteenth year 

Was o'er, he sometimes sicken'd at my face, 

And shiver d though he knew me. All at once 

The glamour came across my Soul again. 

One night, while we were seated in the bield, 

[ heard a wailing come from but the house, 

And horror gript me. " Mother !" Angus cried, 

Glow'ring full fear'd into my burning eyes, 

" What ails thee V 9 " Wheesht !" I whisper'd ; " hear 

ye nought?" 
" Nought ! ; ' Angus said. And then I heard a sound 
Of groans, and clapping hands; and suddenly 
I saw my Angus shrink until he grew 
As small as any babe new-born, and turn, 
Swift as the firenaught, to himself again ; — 



252 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And while I scream'd, and fell upon his neck, 
Weeping, and kissing him, and moaning low, 
He sicken'd at my face, and swoon' d away. 

For, though I hid the trouble from my bairn, 
Long had he known his mother was a seer, 
Whose eyes were troubled by mysterious things ; 
And every shade he saw upon my face 
Distraught him, lest I saw before his path 
Mishap or death. My white-faced, fearful bairn ! 
My drooping Angus, with his soft, wide eyes, 
And fluttering mouth ! Alone upon the hills, 
He trembled — fear'd the lightning and the storm — 
Thole d not to lie within the dark alone — 
And would have withered in his bairndom's time ? 
Had I not cheer' d him with a smiling face. 

Lord, thou wert sore upon me ! I was lone, 
And Angus was my pleasure. I was haunted, 
And Angus was my help. Yet, once again, 
Thy glamour struck me, and I knew, I knew, 
Angus must die. Hard, hard, both day and night, 
I tried to cheat myself and hope, and smiled 
On Angus, till his heart grew still once more. 



THE GLAMOUR. 253 



But it was all in vain. Thrice Angus shrunk, 
Three several gloamings, seated in his chair. 
And I kept down my fear, and did not scream ; 
And oft I heard the wailing in the house, 
And sounding of the kirk-bells down Glen-Earn 
At midnight. Then I sicken'd and grew thin, 
And hunger'd o'er my bairn, and pray'd, and pray'd,- 
And what to me was light of sun or star 
If Angus went away 1 

... It was a night 
Quiet and cold. The moon and stars were oat, 
The moon-dew glittering on the hills. Alone, 
I sat, awaiting Angus. It grew late, 
And Angus came not ; and the low winds blew, 
And the clock tick'd, and ah ! my heart was dark, 
Then, last, I took my cloak, and wander'd forth, 
To see if he was coming down the Glen, 
And took the cold wet pathway in the moon 
Until I reach'd the foot of Cawmock Craig, 
And saw the straight rock rise into the lift, 
Its side all dark, but on its top the Moon 
Shining full bright and chilly. As I stood, 
I heard a shout, and saw, far, far above, 



254 MISCELLANEOUS. 

A figure dark between me and the lift, 
Threading the narrow paths around the Craig 
Whence many a man hath fallen and been slain; 
And even then — Lord, Lord ! — thy glamour dropt 
Upon me, and I saw before my face 
The wraith of Angus wrapt in bloody sowe 
Gliding before me in the ghaistly light. 
Shrill as an owl, I screeched ! — and up above 
My Angus heard, and sicken'd, and swam round, 
And, swooning on the sharp edge of the Craig, 
Dash'd downward to his death ! — 

. . . O bonnie, bonnie 
Look'd Angus, lying in his sowe asleep, 
Quiet like moonlight on his face, his hair 
Kaim'd back and shining round his cold white ears. 
And yonder in the cold kirkyard he lies j 
And, Lord, I want to slumber at his side, 
And cheer him in the darkness of the grave, — 
For he was ever fearful, weak, and pale- — 
A young man with a white bairn's timorous soul. 
And, Lord, I think that Thou at last art kind, 
For oft the white wraith, glimmering at my side, 
Hath w r aved its arms, and moan'd, and look'd like me: 



THE GLAMOUR. 



And I have watch'd it ever, not afraid, 

But sad and smiling ; and what dress I wore, 

The wraith hath worn \ and when I turn'd my gown, 

And let the gray hairs hang all down my neck, 

The wraith, too, turn'd its gown, and loosed its hair; 

And yonder, yonder, yonder, through the pane, 

The blue corpse-candles, blowing in the wind, 

Flit slowly to the kirkyard, down Glen-Earn. 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 



Not in a mist of loveless eyes dies he, 

Who loveth truly nobler light than theirs ; 
To him, nor weariness nor agony, 

Purblind appeals, nor prayers ; 
To hint) the priceless boon 

To watch from heights divine till all he done: 
Calm in each drea7iiy rising of the Moon, 

Clad in each glorious coming of the Sun. 



Chorus of Hours. 



T O ! here at the portal, awaiting new light, 

We linger with pinions dripping dew-light, 
Our faces shadow'd, our heads inclining, 
The bright star-frost on our tresses shining ; 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 257 

Our eyes turn'd earthward in vigil holy, 
Sinking our voices and singing slowly. 



The dark Earth sleepeth to our intoning, 
The Ocean only is gleaming and moaning; 
Our eyelids droop in a still devotion, 
Yet we see the skies in the glass of Ocean, — 
The void, star-lighted, is mirror'd faintly, 
Slow slides the shade of Selene saintly. 

3- 

Eos ! Eos ! thou canst not hear us, 
Yet we feel thee breathing in slumber near us : 
Dark is thy cloud-roof d temple solemn, 
Shadows deepen round arch and column ; 
But a quiet light streams around thee, lying 
In the feeble arms of thy love undying. 

4- 
Eos ! Eos ! thy cheek faint-gleaming 
Sendeth a joy through the old man's dreaming; 
His white hair poureth in frosty showers 
Round a wreath fresh-woven of lily flowers, 



258 MISCELLANEOUS. 



And the flowers are fading and earthward snowing, 
Save those thou breathest against unknowing. 

Tithonos. 

What low, strange music throbs about my brain? 
I hear a motion as of robes — a moaning. 

Eos. 

; Tis the three sisters and their shadowy train, 
Beating the right foot solemnly, and intoning. 

Ah ! weary one, and have thy dreams been ill, 
That thou upheavest thus a face so pale ? 

Tithonos. 

Methought that I was dead, and cold, and still, 

Deep in the navel of a charmed dale ! 
Ah, love, thy gift doth heavy burthen bring, 

Now I grow old, grow old, 
And these weird songs the sisters nightly sing 

Haunt me with memories strange and manifold ; 
For every eve, when Phoibos fades away 

Yonder across Parnassos snow-tipt height, 
These halls feel empty, and the courts grow gray, 
The sisters lose the radiance of the day \ 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 259 

And thy bright hair fades to a silvern light, 
And nothing seems that is not sad though sweet ! 

But Heaven, this East, yea, and the earth below 
Are silenced to the ditties these repeat, 

Sinking their voices sad, and singing slow : 
Yea, Ocean moans with many waters ! sleep 
Is troublous even upon eyes that weep ! 
The monsters of the earth are in their lairs 
Moonlit and cold; the owl sits still and stares 
Through woody nooks with round white eye ; the 
wind 

Breatheth and grope th blind ; 
The burthen and the mystery and the dream, 

The sense of things that are and yet may be, 
The strife between what is and what doth seem, 

Is weaiy then on all, and most on me ! 

Eos. 

It is enough to know thou canst not die, 

Like those of whom thou 'plainest, drowsy one ! 

Tithonos. 

The seasons come and go, the moments fly 
Like snow-flakes, falling, melting in the sun. 



26o MISCELLANEOUS. 



Nothing abideth — all must change — the earth 

Puts on fresh raiment every dawn of day — 
What seems most precious turns to little worth — 
Our love, whose face was an auroral birth, 

Steps in the shade an instant, — and is clay. 
Is it enough to know I cannot die ? 

Further than deathless life, can I implore ? 
Ah, but to know, as the slow years sweep by, 

That life is worthy to be lived, is more. 
Wherefore the burthen and the dream below? 
Wherefore the happiness, the hope, the woe? 
"Wherefore the slimy sense of evil things 

That draws the adder round the young man's eyes ? 
Wherefore the yearnings and imaginings, 

The songs of bards, the broodings of the wise ? 
Have the gods written only on their scroll : 

" Man striveth merely for a little space, — ■ 
Then there is slumber, and the death-bells toll, 

The children cry, the widow hides her face, 
The foolish dream is o'er, 
And all is done for ever evermore V 
Oh, wherefore life at all, if life be such, — 

A joy, a weariness, a growing gray ! 
If life be more, how mav man live too much ? 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 26l 

Eos. 
Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away. 

Hours. 
Crow's-nest on a yew-tree, swing slow in sad weather, 
There's a lock o' wet hair pastes thy brown sides 

together !— 
Blood-red were her lips, till she paled and grew thin, 
As the pink under-eyelid of snakes was her skin. 
Crow's-nest on a yew-tree that grows on a tomb, 
The little black fledglings croak low in the gloom ; 
O maiden below, canst thou hear how they cry ] 
Dost thou stir in thy sleep as the adder goes by? 
A worm crawl' d away with the little gold ring 
He placed on thy ringer that summer morning; 
Then thy hand became bone, then was turn'd into clay, 
While thy heart wither'd slowly ; but cheerly, to-day 
Thy fingers are leaves on the tree, in whose shade 
He sits with as tender a maid ! 

TlTHONOS. 

Of death, corruption, change, and mystery, 

They chant their chime to which the old world 
sleeps ! 



262 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Why 11 oi for ever stand they bright and free, 
Flinging a glad song over dales and deeps, 

As morn by morn they do, when from my breast 
With rosy footsteps thou dost bright'ning go, 

Blue-winged, to Parnassos ? 

Eos. 

Be at rest ! 

The sense of things is dark on these also ; 
And e'en immortal gods grow pale at times 
To hear their world-old rhymes. 
Yea, Zeus the Sire himself beholds and hears, 

Stares vacantly into the blue profound, 
What time a rainbow drawn from all earth's tears 

Fades on Olumpos with a weeping sound ! 

Tithonos. 
What then remains, my soul, if this be so ? 

Eos. 

Around my neck I wind thy beard of gray, 
And kiss thy quivering eyelids till they glow, 

And thy face lightens on me, and I say, 
" Look in mine eyes and know !" 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 263 

Hours. 
O clod of green mould, that wast lately a man, 
Time was, thou wert footsore and weary and wan, 
When thy brain was as fire, when thine eyes were as 

lead, 
When thy hair was as white as the bones of the 

dead ! 
Dust in the urn, on a shelf, in a shrine, 
Hast thou ears, hast thou eyes, canst thou feel, or 

divine ] 
Bones in the ground, can ye guess what ye be ? 
Brain, in the midst of the bones, canst thou see ? 
Corse, in a clod-gown clammy with dew, 
Skull, with a hole where the arrow went through, 
Do ye dream, are ye troubled, remember ye there 
The life and the light that ye were ? 

Tithonos. 

Thine eyes are lit with passion strong enew 

To melt a mortal's heart to fiery dew ! 

The burthen and the wonder and the dream, 

Yea, all I am or was, and all I seem, 

Are dwarf d within these liquid orbs of thine 

To the blue shadow of a love divine ! 



264 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Yea, sweetest, love is surest, truest, best ! 
And dearest, knowing it must last for long ! 



Eos. 

Now, close thine eyes, lean heavy on my breast, 

And let my lips rain over thee in song ! — 
Thou wert a mortal who with fearless eyes 

Dared seek the love of an immortal thing ; 
Plead low thou didst, and strive and agonise, 

Yet time ebb'd on, and little peace did bring; 
And the immortal joy seem'd far away, 

Lessening and lessening to a speck of gold 
Against the gates of sunrise, — till that day 
I came upon thee where thou sleeping lay, 

Breathed smoothness on thy wrinkled forehead old, 
And woke thee to these wondrous halls, from whence 

Thou seest the glimmering tract of earth below, 
And tranced thee to nuptials so intense 

Thy flesh and blood seem'd melting off like snow, 
Leaving thy soul in its eternal hues 

Clear, strong, and pale, as yonder crystal sphere 
That swings above my threshold, sprinkling dews 

Immortal over all who enter here !— 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 265 

And still thy corporal semblance ages on, 

Thy hair dries up, thy bones grow chill and bare. 

A little while, my love, and all is gone, 
Drunk by the lips of a diviner air ! 

TlTHONOS. 

Ah woe ! ah woe ! — and I am lost for aye ! 

Eos. 

Nothing, be sure, can wholly pass away ! 

And nothing suffers loss if love remains I 
The motion of mine air consumes thy clay, 
My breath dries up the moisture of thy veins ; 
Yet have I given thee immortal being, 

Thereto immortal love, immortal power, 
Consuming thy base substance till thy seeing 

Grows clearer, brighter, purer, hour by hour ; — 
Immortal honour, too, is thine, for thou 

Hast sought the highest meed the gods can give — 
Immortal Love hath stoop'd to kiss thy brow ! 

Immortal Love hath smiled, and bade thee live ! 
Wherefore the gods have given thee mighty meed, 

And snatch'd thee from the death-pyres of thy 
race, 



266 MISCELLANEOUS. 



To wear away these weary mortal weeds 

In a serener and a purer place, — 
Not amid warriors on a battle plain, 

Not by the breath of pestilence or woe, 
But here, at the far edge of earth and main, 

Whence light and love and resurrection flow, — 
And I upon thy breast, to soothe the pain ! 
Immortal life assured, what mattereth 
That it be not the old fond life of breath ! 
Immortal life assured, the soul is free — 
It is enough to be ! 
For lo ! the love, the dream, to which is given 

Divine assurance by a mortal peace, 
Mix with the wonders of supremest heaven, 

Become a part of that which cannot cease, 
And being eternal must be beauteous too, 

And being beauteous, surely must be glad ! 
O love, my love, thy wildest dreams were true, 

Though thou wert footsore in thy quest, and 
sad ! 
Not in a mist of hungry eyes dies he 

Who loveth purely nobler light than theirs ; 
For him nor weariness nor agony, 

Purblind appeals, nor prayers; 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 267 

But circled by the peace serene and holy 

Of that divinest thought he loved so long 
Pensive, not melancholy, 

He mingles with those airs that made him strong,— 
A little loath to quit 

The old familiar dwelling-house of clay, 
Yet calm, as the warm wind dissolveth it, 

And leaf by leaf it droppeth quite away. 
To him the priceless boon 

To watch from heights serene till all be done ; 
Calm in each dreamy rising of the Moon, 

Glad in each glorious coming of the Sun ! 

Hours. 

The stars are fading away in wonder, 
Small sounds are stirring around and under, 
Far away, from beneath the ocean, 
We hear a murmur of wheels in motion, 
And the wind that brings it along rejoices, — ■ 
Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices ! 

Eos. 

It is Apollo ! Hitherward he urges 

His four steeds, steaming odorous fumes of day; 



268 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Along his chariot-wheels the white sea surges, 
As up he drives his fiery-footed way. 

Tithonos. 

Ye brighten, O ye columns round about ! 

Ye melt in purple shades, arches and towers ! 
Cloud-roof, thou partest, and white hands slip out, 

Scattering pearls and flowers ! 
Brighter and brighter, blazing red and gold, 

Purple and amethyst, that float and fly ! — 
While, creeping in, a dawn-wind fresh and cold 

Pours silver o'er the couch whereon I lie ! 
Afar the coming of Apollo grows ! 

His breath lifts up my hair ! my pulses beat ! 

My beard is moist with dews divinely sweet, 
My lap is fuTd with sparkling leaves of rose, 
Wherein my fingers, withered and sere, 
Grope palsiedly in joy ! — Afar I hear 
The low, quick breathing that the earth is making — ■ 
Eastward she turns her dewy side, awaking. 
But thou ! but thou ! 

Insufferably brightening ! 
Thy feet yet bathed in moist still shade, thy brow 

Glistening and lightening, 



THE GIFT OF EOS. 269 

Thy luminous eyes enlarging, ring on ring 

Of liquid azure, and thy golden hair 
Unfolding downward, curl on curl, to cling 

Around thy silken feet rose-tipt and bare ! 
Thy hands stretched out to catch the flowers down- 
flowing, 

Thy blushing look on mine, thy light green vest 
In balmy airs of morning backward blowing 

From one divine white breast ! 
The last star melts above thee in the blue, 

The cold moon shrinks her horn, as thou dost go 
Parnass os-ward, flower-laden, dripping dew, 

Heralding him who cometh from below ! 



Hours. 

1. 

Our hearts beat quicker, we lift our voices, 
The east grows golden, the earth rejoices, 
White clouds part with a radiant motion, 
Moist sails glimmer beneath on Ocean, 
And downward tripping, the sweet Immortal 
Blushingly pauses without the portal ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



2. 

Eos ! Eos ! the sound from under 
Deepens in music and might and wonder : 
Thou standest now on Parnassos' mountain, 
Thy feet drip pearls from the sacred fountain, 
And the sisters nine, to thy bright skirt clinging, 
Greet thee with smiling and mystic singing ! 

3- 

Eos ! Eos ! all earth beholds thee, 
The light of the sunrise there infolds thee, 
A cry comes up from the earth below thee, 
Mountains and forests and waters know thee, 
Fresh airs thy robe are backward blowing, 
Under thy footprints flowers are growing ! 

4. 

Eos ! Eos ! the sound is louder ! 

Behind streams radiance fiercer and prouder ! 

A moment thou blushest, and glad we view thee, 

Then Apollo the Fire-God speeds unto thee, 

Speeding by with a smile he hails thee, — 

And the golden cloud of his breathing veils thee ! 



GLOSSARY 

OF A FEW SCOTTICISMS USED IN " THE SCAITH O' 

BARTLE." 

To avoid errors, (such as were not uncommon among 
readers of the " Idyls of Inverburn,") let it be under- 
stood that the English equivalents given below merely- 
express the meanings the Scotch words bear in the 
text, and which they are in all instances capable of 
bearing. 

Bickering, quarrelling. 

Bield, house. 

Bint, burthen. 

Braxie, a distempered sheep. 

Caird, wild strapping fellow. 

Clachan, small village. 

Corsy-be/ly, infant's first shirt. 

Cowrie, stoop down. 

Cushlingmushling, constantly muttering. 

Cutty-stool, the stool of repentance, occupied in kirk by 

girls who have slipt. 
Daft, silly. 
Dazvtie, darling. 
Dree, bear sadly. 
Firejlaught, sheet lightning. 
1'lyte, scold. 

Gizzcn, to dry up through drought. 
Glamour, second-sight 
Greet, cry. 
Rozvdie, midwife. 



272 GLOSSARY. 



Jizzen-bed, bed of labour. 
Keeky peep. 
Kibble, strong. 
ICunmer, neighbour. 
Lift, air; sky. 
Lowe, firelight. 
Mid-eildy middle-age. 
Mirk, dark. 
Natp y ridge of a roof. 
Pout, a plump girl. 
Ran-lre:, mountain ash. 
Sark, shirt ; chemise. 
Scaith, scourge, or plague. 
Scunner, to shrink shuddcringly. 
Shieling, hut. 
Siller, money. 
Soopit, exhausted. 
Sowe, shroud. 
Speel, climb. 

Stanchgrass, yarrow, used to stanch bleeding. 
Sloure, dust. 

Swaver, walk exhaustedly. 
Thole, endure. 
Toom, empty. 
V/anrest, uneasiness. 
Whin, dwarf gorse. 

Widdershins, something growing in a direction contrary to 
the sun- course. 



THE END. 



John F. Troio fy Co., Printers, Ncic York. 



V/ORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 



Just published, crown 8vo, Second Edition, enlarged, 

IDYLS AND LEGENDS OF INYERBURN. 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 

" Mr. Buchanan is a man of original genius ; such faculty as he 
has is independent, individual. And if we look closely into his 
poems we shall be struck with the fact, that although quite free 
from mannerism or eccentricity, which would call attention to 
any marked peculiarity isolating him from contemporaries, his 
thought and style are distinctively his own. He has none of the 
showy graces which make inconsiderate readers exclaim, * How 
clever ! how poetical ! ' While reading the poems you never 
think of the poet. It is only in the afterglow of emotion you 
think of him, and then you know what rare power was needed to 
produce so genuine an effect." — Art. Robert Buchanan, by 
G. H. Lewes, in the Fortnightly Review. 

" One of the most charming volumes of poetic narrative that 
we know."— Pall Mall Gazette. 

" We do not call to mind any volume of modern poetry so rich 
in tenderly-told story, beautifully-painted picture, and abundant 
spontaneous music." — Illustrated Times. 

" One who can write thus has a claim to be considered a true 
poet and master of hearts." — Eclectic Review. 

" It is a book full of the freshness which one feels ; full of that 
simplicity which is requisite to be natural ; and full of that power 
which indicates truth. Above all, it is a book of grand human 
interest." — Morning Star. 

" Simple and transparent in structure as a crystal No 

one can know what true poetry is who does not feel its breath in 
every line of this fine passage." — Spectator. 



Ready, Second Edition, enlarged and revised, fcap. 8vo, 

price $1.75. 

UNDERTONES. 

BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



" The new edition contains new work, and the new work has a 
value of its own. Not only have little touches of warmth and 
colour been laid on the canvas in many places, perfecting the verse 
rather than changing it, but one noble and beautiful poem has 
been added to the 'Undertones.' It tells the story of a life with 

weird and wondrous power Shall we attempt to moralise 

the tale ? In such a poem imagination is put to some of its 
highest use. It is a rare expression of the poet's wealth that a 
poem so full of genius should have been flung, all but unnoticed, 
into a new edition." — Athenceum : Notice of Second Edition. 

"Great intelligence, fine workmanship, and dramatic power 
almost unequalled in this half century." — Illustrated Times. 



In preparation, 

THE POET: 

An Essay, a Criticism, and a Biography. 
BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 



NEW YORK: ALEXANDER STRAHAN, 139 GRAND ST. 



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